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THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF 
NORTH  CAROLINA 
AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


ENDOWED  BY  THE 
DIALECTIC  AND  PHILANTHROPIC 
SOCIETIES 


PS2305 

.A  1  ' 
1892 
v.  1 


UNIVERSITY  OF  N.C.  AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


00008740099 


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&ibet£i&e  tuition 

THE  WRITINGS 

OF 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

IN  TEN  VOLUMES 
VOLUME  VII. 

€ 


\ 


POEMS 


BY  •  ^ 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 

M  DCCC  XCII 


) 

\ 


Copyright,  1848, 1876, 1890, 
By  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL, 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  0.  Houghton  &  Company. 


PREFATORY  NOTE  TO  THE  POEMS 


There  are  a  great  many  pieces  in  these  volumes, 
especially  in  the  first  of  them,  which  I  would  gladly 
suppress  or  put  into  the  Coventry  of  smaller  print 
in  an  appendix.  But  "ilka  mon  maun  dree  his 
weird,"  and  the  avenging  litera  scripta  manet  is 
that  of  the  over-hasty  author.  Owing  to  the  un- 
just distinction  made  by  the  law  between  literary 
and  other  property,  most  of  what  I  published  pre- 
maturely has  lost  the  protection  of  copyright,  and 
is  reprinted  by  others  against  my  will.  I  cannot 
shake  off  the  burthen  of  my  early  indiscretions  if 
I  would.  The  best  way,  perhaps,  is  to  accept  with 
silent  contrition  the  consequences  of  one's  own  mis- 
takes, and  I  have,  after  much  hesitation,  consented 
to  the  reprinting  of  the  old  editions  without  exci- 
sion. 

I  must  confess,  however,  that  I  have  attained 
this  pitch  of  self-sacrifice  only  by  compulsion,  and  v 
should  have  greatly  preferred  to  increase  the  value 
of  this  collection  by  lessening  its  bulk.  The  judi- 
cious reader  will,  I  fear,  distinguish  only  too  easily 
what  I  should  wish,  in  parliamentary  phrase,  "  to 
be  taken  as  read."    As  we  grow  older,  we  grow 


vi      PREFATORY  NOTE  TO  THE  POEMS 

the  more  willing  to  say,  as  Petrarca  in  Landor's 
Pentameron  says  to  Boccaccio,  "  We  neither  of  us 
are  such  poets  as  we  thought  ourselves  when  we 
were  younger." 

J.  R.  L. 

9th  May,  1890. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

EARLIER  POEMS. 

Threnodia  ....».,,.! 
The  Sirens  .       .  5 

Irene  8 

Serenade    .........  12 

With  a  Pressed  Flower     .      .      .      .      .  .18 

The  Beggar  14 

My  Love  .  ,15 

Summer  Storm  18 

Love  21 

To  Perdita,  Singing  .......  23 

The  Moon   .  26 

Remembered  Music  27 

Song.    To  M.  L   .28 

Allegra      .........  29 

The  Fountain  30 

Ode      ......      .      .      .  .32 

The  Fatherland   ........  37 

The  Forlorn     ...       .....  38 

Midnight  41 

A  Prayer  43 

The  Heritage  43 

The  Rose:  A  Ballad  ,46 

Song  ....  ......  4S 

Rosaline   .50 

A  Requiem   .  53 

A  Parable  54 

Song  ...  56 


CONTENTS 


Sockets 

I.  To  A.C.L    .   57 

II.  "  What  were  I,  Love,  if  I  were  stripped 

OF  THEE  ?  "   5S 

III.  "I  WOULD  NOT   HAVE  THIS  PERFECT  LOVE 

OF  OURS  "   58 

IV.  "For  this  true  nobleness  I  seek  in 

vain"     .      .      .       .      .      .  .59 

V.  To  the  Spirit  of  Keats       .      .       .  59 
VI.  "  Great  truths  are  portions  of  the  soul 

of  man  "   60 

VII.  "I  ask  not  for  those  thoughts,  that 

sudden  leap"   .  60 

VIII.  To  M.  W.,  on  her  Birthday     .             .  61 
IX.  "  My  Love,  I  have  no  fear  that  thou 

shouldst  die  "   62 

x.  "i  cannot  think  that  thou  shouldst 

pass  away"  .      .       .       .      .       .  62 

XI.  "  There  never  yet  was  flower  fair 

in  vain  "       ......  63 

XII.  Sub  Pondere  Crescit    ....  03 

XIIL  "Beloved,  in  the  noisy  city  here"     .  64 
XIV.  On  Reading  Wordsworth's  Sonnets  in 

Defence  of  Capital  Punishment      .  04 

XV.  The  Same  continued      ....  65 

XVL  The  Same  continued        ....  66 

XVII.  The  Same  continued     .       .  *    .       .  66 

XVIII.  The  Same  continued   67 

XIX.  The  Same  concluded     ....  67 

XX.  ToM.  O.S.         .       .       .       .       .      .  6S 

XXI.  "  Our  love  is  not  a  fading,  earthly 

FLOWER "  •   69 

XXIL  In  Absence             .......  69 

XXIII.  Wendell  Phillips   70 

XXIV.  The  Street   70 

XXV.    "I    GRIEVE    NOT    THAT    RIPE  KNOWLEDGE 

TAKES  AWAY  "     .         .          .         .         .  71 

XXVL  To  J.  R.  Giddings       .....  72 

XXVII.    "I  THOUGHT  OUR  LOVE  AT  FULL,  BUT  I  DID 

ERR"        .......  72 

L'Envoi  73 


CONTENTS  ix 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

A  Legend  op  Brittany  7S 

Prometheus  105 

The  Shepherd  of  King  Admetus  .       .      .  .117 

The  Token  119 

An  Incident  in  a  Railroad  Car  ....  120 

Rhcecus  =  123 

The  Falcon  .129 

Trlal  130 

A  Glance  behind  the  Curtain     .      .      .  .131 

A  Chippewa  Legend  «  142 

Stanzas  on  Freedom  146 

Columbus   148 

An  Incident  of  the  Fire  at  Hamburg      .       .  157 

The  Sower  160 

Hunger  and  Cold  162 

The  Landlord  165 

To  a  Pine-Tree  =166 

Si  Descender©  in  Infernum,  Ades    ....  168 

To  the  Past   170 

To  the  Future     .      .       .      .      *      .     ...      .  172 

Hebe  175 

The  Search  17( 

The  Present  Crisis   178 

An  Indian-Summer  Reverie       .  185 

The  Growth  of  the  Legend  198 

A  Contrast  201 

Extreme  Unction  202 

The  Oak   .      .  .205 

Ambrose  207 

Above  and  Below  210 

The  Captive  212 

The  Birch-Tree  215 

An  Interview  with  Miles  Standish     .      .      .  216 
On  the  Capture  of  Fugitive  Slaves  near  Wash- 
ington  222 

To  the  Dandelion  225 

The  Ghost-Seer  .227 

Studies  for  two  Heads  233 

On  a  Portrait  of  Dante  by  Giotto  .  .  .  237 
On  the  Death  of  a  Friend's  Child        .      .       .  239 


x  CONTENTS 

Eurydicb  242 

She  Came  and  Went  245 

The  Changeling  246 

The  Pioneer  .........  248 

Longing   250 

Ode  to  France.    February,  1848  .....  252 

Anti-Apis   258 

A  Parable   2G2 

Ode  written  for  the  Celebration  of  the  Intro- 
duction   OF    THE    COCHITUATE   WATER    INTO  THE 

City  of  Boston  ........  2G4 

Lines  suggested  by  the  Graves  of  two  English 
Soldiers  on  Concord  Battle-Ground  .      .      .  2GG 

To     2GS 

Freedom  .      .       ........  269 

Bibliolatres   271 

Beaver  Brook  273 

MEMORIAL  VERSES. 

Kossuth  ..........  276 

To  Lamartine.    1848       ......  277 

To  John  G.  Palfrey  280 

To  W.  L.  Garrison  282 

On  the  Death  of  C.  T.  Torrey        ....  284 

Elegy  on  the  Death  of  Dr.  Channing       .      .  28G 
To  the  Memory  of  Hood    .       .      .      .      .      .  289 

THE  VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL      ....  291 

LETTER  FROM  BOSTON.    December,  1S46   .       .  .305 


POEMS 


EARLIER  POEMS 

THRENODIA 

Gone,  gone  from  us !  and  shall  we  see 
Those  sibyl-leaves  of  destiny, 
Those  calm  eyes,  nevermore  ? 
Those  deep,  dark  eyes  so  warm  and  bright. 
Wherein  the  fortunes  of  the  man 
Lay  slumbering  in  prophetic  light, 
In  characters  a  child  might  scan? 
So  bright,  and  gone  forth  utterly  ! 
Oh  stern  word  —  Nevermore ! 

The  stars  of  those  two  gentle  eyes 
Will  shine  no  more  on  earth ; 
Quenched  are  the  hopes  that  had  their  birth, 
As  we  watched  them  slowly  rise, 
Stars  of  a  mother's  fate  ; 
And  she  would  read  them  o'er  and  o'er, 
Pondering,  as  she  sate, 
Over  their  dear  astrology, 
Which  she  had  conned  and  conned  before, 
Deeming  she  needs  must  read  aright 
What  was  writ  so  passing  bright. 


2 


EARLIER  POEMS 


And  yet,  alas  !  she  knew  not  why, 
Her  voice  would  falter  in  its  song, 
And  tears  would  slide  from  out  her  eye, 
Silent,  as  they  were  doing  wrong. 
Oh  stern  word  —  Nevermore  ! 

The  tongue  that  scarce  had  learned  to  claim 
An  entrance  to  a  mother's  heart 
By  that  dear  talisman,  a  mother's  name, 
Sleeps  all  forgetful  of  its  art ! 
I  loved  to  see  the  infant  soul 
(How  mighty  in  the  weakness 
Of  its  untutored  meekness  !) 
Peep  timidly  from  out  its  nest, 
His  lips,  the  while, 
Fluttering  with  half -fledged^  words, 
Or  hushing  to  a  smile 
That  more  than  words  expressed, 
When  his  glad  mother  on  him  stole 
And  snatched  him  to  her  breast ! 
Oh,  thoughts  were  brooding  in  those  eyes, 
That  would   have   soared   like  strong-winged 
birds 

Far,  far  into  the  skies, 
Gladding  the  earth  with  song, 
And  gushing  harmonies, 
Had  he  but  tarried  with  us  long ! 
Oh  stern  word  —  Nevermore ! 

How  peacefully  they  rest, 
Crossfolded  there 
Upon  his  little  breast, 


THR  E  NODI  A 


3 


Those  small,  white  hands  that  ne'er  were  still 
before, 

But  ever  sported  with  his  mother's  hair, 
Or  the   plain   cross   that  on   her  breast  she 
wore ! 

Her  heart  no  more  will  beat 

To  feel  the  touch  of  that  soft  palm, 

That  ever  seemed  a  new  surprise 

Sending  glad  thoughts  up  to  her  eyes 

To  bless  him  with  their  holy  calm,  — 

Sweet  thoughts !  they  made  her  eyes  as  sweeto 

How  quiet  are  the  hands 

That  wove  those  pleasant  bands ! 

But  that  they  do  not  rise  and  sink 

With  his  calm  breathing,  I  should  think 

That  he  were  dropped  asleep. 

Alas !  too  deep,  too  deep 

Is  this  his  slumber ! 

Time  scarce  can  number 

The  years  ere  he  shall  wake  again. 

Oh,  may  we  see  his  eyelids  open  then ! 

Oh  stern  word  —  Nevermore ! 

As  the  airy  gossamere, 
Floating  in  the  sunlight  clear, 
Where'er  it  toucheth  clingeth  tightly, 
Round  glossy  leaf  or  stump  unsightly, 
So  from  his  spirit  wandered  out 
Tendrils  spreading  all  about, 
Knitting  all  things  to  its  thrall 
With  a  perfect  love  of  all : 
Oh  stern  word  - — Nevermore ! 


4 


EARLIER  POEMS 


He  did  but  float  a  little  way 
Adown  the  stream  of  time, 
With  dreamy  eyes  watching  the  ripples  play, 
Or  hearkening  their  fairy  chime ; 
His  slender  sail 
Ne'er  felt  the  gale  ; 
He  did  but  float  a  little  way, 
And,  putting  to  the  shore 
While  yet 't  was  early  day, 
Went  calmly  on  his  way, 
To  dwell  with  us  no  more ! 
No  jarring  did  he  feel, 
No  grating  on  his  shallop's  keel ; 
A  strip  of  silver  sand 
Mingled  the  waters  with  the  land 
Where  he  was  seen  no  more : 
Oh  stern  word  —  Nevermore ! 

Full  short  his  journey  was  ;  no  dust 
Of  earth  unto  his  sandals  clave ; 
The  weary  weight  that  old  men  must, 
He  bore  not  to  the  grave. 
He  seemed  a  cherub  who  had  lost  his  way 
And  wandered  hither,  so  his  stay 
With  us  was  short,  and 't  was  most  meet 
That  he  should  be  no  delver  in  earth's  clod, 
Nor  need  to  pause  and  cleanse  his  feet 
To  stand  before  his  God : 
Oh  blest  word  —  Evermore ! 


THE  SIRENS 


THE  SIRENS 

The  sea  is  lonely,  the  sea  is  dreary, 
The  sea  is  restless  and  uneasy ; 
Thou  seekest  quiet,  thou  art  weary, 
Wandering  thou  knowest  not  whither ;  — 
Our  little  isle  is  green  and  breezy, 
Come  and  rest  thee  !    Oh  come  hither, 
Come  to  this  peaceful  home  of  ours, 

Where  evermore 
The  low  west-wind  creeps  panting  up  the  shore 
To  be  at  rest  among  the  flowers ; 
Full  of  rest,  the  green  moss  lifts, 

As  the  dark  waves  of  the  sea 
Draw  in  and  out  of  rocky  rifts, 

Calling  solemnly  to  thee 
With  voices  deep  and  hollow,  — 

66  To  the  shore 
Follow!    Oh,  follow! 
To  be  at  rest  f orevermore  ! 
Forevermore !  " 

Look  how  the  gray  old  Ocean 
From  the  depth  of  his  heart  rejoices, 
Heaving  with  a  gentle  motion, 
When  he  hears  our  restful  voices ; 
List  how  he  sings  in  an  undertone, 
Chiming  with  our  melody  ; 
And  all  sweet  sounds  of  earth  and  air 
Melt  into  one  low  voice  alone, 
That  murmurs  over  the  weary  sea, 


EARLIER  POEMS 

And  seems  to  sing  from  everywhere,  — 
Here  mayst  thou  harbor  peacefully, 
Here  mayst  thou  rest  from  the  aching  oar 

Turn  thy  curved  prow  ashore, 
And  in  our  green  isle  rest  forevermore ! 

For  evermore  !  " 
And  Echo  half  wakes  in  the  wooded  hill* 
And,  to  her  heart  so  calm  and  deep, 
Murmurs  over  in  her  sleep, 
Doubtfully  pausing  and  murmuring  stilly 
66  Evermore ! " 

Thus,  on  Lifers  weary  sea, 
Heareth  the  marinere 
Voices  sweet,  from  far  and  near9 
Ever  singing  low  and  clear. 
Ever  singing  longingly. 

Is  it  not  better  here  to  be, 
Than  to  be  toiling  late  and  soon  ? 
In  the  dreary  night  to  see 
Nothing  but  the  blood-red  moon 
Go  up  and  down  into  the  sea ; 
Or,  in  the  loneliness  of  day, 

To  see  the  still  seals  only 
Solemnly  lift  their  faces  grayy 

Making  it  yet  more  lonely  ? 
Is  it  not  better  than  to  hear 
Only  the  sliding  of  the  wave 
Beneath  the  plank,  and  feel  so  near 
A  cold  and  lonely  grave, 
A  restless  grave,  where  thou  shalt  lie 
Even  in  death  unquietly  ? 


THE  SIRENS 


7 


Look  down  beneath  thy  wave-worn  bark, 

Lean  over  the  side  and  see 
The  leaden  eye  of  the  sidelong  shark 
Upturned  patiently, 
Ever  waiting  there  for  thee  : 
Look  down  and  see  those  shapeless  forms, 
Which  ever  keep  their  dreamless  sleep 
Far  down  within  the  gloomy  deep, 
And  only  stir  themselves  in  storms, 
Rising  like  islands  from  beneath, 
And  snorting  through  the  angry  spray, 
As  the  frail  vessel  perisheth 
In  the  whirls  of  their  unwieldy  play ; 
Look  down  !    Look  down  ! 
Upon  the  seaweed,  slimy  and  dark, 
That  waves  its  arms  so  lank  and  brown, 

Beckoning  for  thee  ! 
Look  down  beneath  thy  wave-worn  bark 

Into  the  cold  depth  of  the  sea ! 
Look  down  !    Look  down  ! 

Thus,  on  Life's  lonely  sea, 
Heareth  the  marinere 
Voices  sad,  from  far  and  near, 
Ever  singing  full  of  fear, 
Ever  singing  drearfully. 

Here  all  is  pleasant  as  a  dream ; 
The  wind  scarce  shaketh  down  the  dew, 
The  green  grass  floweth  like  a  stream 
Into  the  ocean's  blue  ; 
Listen  !     Oh,  listen  ! 
Here  is  a  gush  of  many  streams, 


8 


EARLIER  POEMS 


A  song  of  many  birds, 
And  every  wish  and  longing  seems 
Lulled  to  a  numbered  flow  of  words,  — 

Listen  !    Ob,  listen  ! 
Here  ever  bum  the  golden  bees 
Underneath  full-blossomed  trees, 
At  once  with  glowing  fruit  and  flowers  crowned ;  — 
So  smooth  the  sand,  the  yellow  sand, 
That  thy  keel  will  not  grate  as  it  touches  the  land ; 
All  around  with  a  slumberous  sound, 
The  singing  waves  slide  up  the  strand, 
And  there,  where  the  smooth,  wet  pebbles  be, 
The  waters  gurgle  longingly, 
As  if  they  fain  would  seek  the  shore, 
To  be  at  rest  from  the  ceaseless  roar. 
To  be  at  rest  f orevermore,  — 
Forevermore. 

Thus,  on  Life's  gloomy  sea, 

Heareth  the  marinere 

Voices  sweet,  from  far  and  near, 

Ever  singing  in  his  ear, 
44  Here  is  rest  and  peace  for  thee  I  " 


iren£ 

Heks  is  a  spirit  deep,  and  crystal-clear ; 
Calmly  beneath  her  earnest  face  it  lies, 
Free  without  boldness,  meek  without  a  fear, 
Quicker  to  look  than  speak  its  sympathies ; 
Far  down  into  her  large  and  patient  eyes 
I  gaze,  deep-drinking  of  the  infinite, 

> 


/ 


IRENE  9 

As,  in  the  mid-watch  of  a  clear,  still  night, 
I  look  into  the  fathomless  blue  skies. 

So  circled  lives  she  with  Love's  holy  light, 
That  from  the  shade  of  self  she  walketh  free ; 
The  garden  of  her  soul  still  keepeth  she 
An  Eden  where  the  snake  did  never  enter ; 
She  hath  a  natural,  wise  sincerity, 
A  simple  truthfulness,  and  these  have  lent  her 
A  dignity  as  moveless  as  the  centre  ; 
So  that  no  influence  of  our  earth  can  stir 
Her  steadfast  courage,  nor  can  take  away 
The  holy  peacefulness,  which  night  and  day, 
Unto  her  queenly  soul  doth  minister. 

Most  gentle  is  she  ;  her  large  charity 
(An  all  unwitting,  childlike  gift  in  her) 
Not  freer  is  to  give  than  meek  to  bear ; 
And,  though  herself  not  unacquaint  with  care, 
Hath  in  her  heart  wide  room  for  all  that  be,  — 
Her  heart  that  hath  no  secrets  of  its  own, 
But  open  is  as  eglantine  full  blown. 
Cloudless  forever  is  her  brow  serene, 
Speaking  calm  hope  and  trust  within  her,  whence 
Welleth  a  noiseless  spring  of  patience, 
That  keepeth  all  her  life  so  fresh,  so  green 
And  full  of  holiness,  that  every  look, 
The  greatness  of  her  woman's  soul  revealing, 
Unto  me  bringeth  blessing,  and  a  feeling 
As  when  I  read  in  God's  own  holy  book. 

A  graciousness  in  giving  that  doth  make 
The  small1  st  gift  greatest,  and  a  sense  most  meek 


10 


EARLIER  POEMS 


Of  worthiness,  that  doth  not  fear  to  take 

From  others,  but  which  always  fears  to  speak 

Its  thanks  in  utterance,  for  the  giver's  sake ;  — 

The  deep  religion  of  a  thankful  heart, 

Which  rests  instinctively  in  Heaven's  clear  law 

With  a  full  peace,  that  never  can  depart 

From  its  own  steadfastness ;  —  a  holy  awe 

For  holy  things,  —  not  those  which  men  call  holy, 

But  such  as  are  revealed  to  the  eyes 

Of  a  true  woman's  soul  bent  down  and  lowly 

Before  the  face  of  daily  mysteries  ;  — 

A  love  that  blossoms  soon,  but  ripens  slowly 

To  the  full  goldenness  of  fruitful  prime, 

Enduring  with  a  firmness  that  defies 

All  shallow  tricks  of  circumstance  and  time, 

By  a  sure  insight  knowing  where  to  cling, 

And  where  it  clingeth  never  withering ;  — 

These  are  Irene's  dowry,  which  no  fate 

Can  shake  from  their  serene,  deep-builded  state. 

In-seeing  sympathy  is  hers,  which  chasteneth 
No  less  than  loveth,  scorning  to  be  bound 
With  fear  of  blame,  and  yet  which  ever  hasteneth 
To  pour  the  balm  of  kind  looks  on  the  wound, 
If  they  be  wounds  which  such  sweet  teaching 
makes, 

Giving  itself  a  pang  for  others'  sakes  ; 

No  want  of  faith,  that  chills  with  sidelong  eye, 

Hath  she  ;  no  jealousy,  no  Levite  pride 

That  passeth  by  upon  the  other  side ; 

For  in  her  soul  there  never  dwelt  a  lie. 

Eight  from  the  hand  of  God  her  spirit  came 


IRENE 


11 


Unstained,  and  she  hath  ne'er  forgotten  whence 
It  came,  nor  wandered  far  from  thence, 
But  laboreth  to  keep  her  still  the  same, 
Near  to  her  place  of  birth,  that  she  may  not 
Soil  her  white  raiment  with  an  earthly  spot. 

Yet  sets  she  not  her  soul  so  steadily 
Above,  that  she  forgets  her  ties  to  earth, 
But  her  whole  thought  would  almost  seem  to  be 
How  to  make  glad  one  lowly  human  hearth ; 
For  with  a  gentle  courage  she  doth  strive 
In  thought  and  word  and  feeling  so  to  live 
As  to  make  earth  next  heaven  ;  and  her  heart 
Herein  doth  show  its  most  exceeding  worth, 
That,  bearing  in  our  frailty  her  just  part, 
She  hath  not  shrunk  from  evils  of  this  life, 
But  hath  gone  calmly  forth  into  the  strife, 
And  all  its  sins  and  sorrows  hath  withstood 
With  lofty  strength  of  patient  womanhood : 
For  this  I  love  her  great  soul  more  than  all, 
That,  being  bound,  like  us,  with  earthly  thrall, 
She  walks  so  bright  and  heaven-like  therein,  — 
Too  wise,  too  meek,  too  womanly,  to  sin. 

Like  a  lone  star  through  riven  storm-clouds  seen 
By  sailors,  tempest-tost  upon  the  sea, 
Telling  of  rest  and  peaceful  heavens  nigh, 
Unto  my  soul  her  star-like  soul  hath  been, 
Her  sight  as  full  of  hope  and  calm  to  me ;  — 
For  she  unto  herself  hath  builded  high 
A  home  serene,  wherein  to  lay  her  head, 
Earth's  noblest  thing,  a  Woman  perfected. 


12 


EARLIER  POEMS 


SERENADE 

From  the  close-shut  windows  gleams  no  spark, 
The  night  is  chilly,  the  night  is  dark, 
The  poplars  shiver,  the  pine-trees  moan, 
My  hair  by  the  autumn  breeze  is  blown, 
Under  thy  window  I  sing  alone, 
Alone,  alone,  ah  woe  !  alone ! 

The  darkness  is  pressing  coldly  around, 
The  windows  shake  with  a  lonely  sound, 
The  stars  are  hid  and  the  night  is  drear, 
The  heart  of  silence  throbs  in  thine  ear, 
In  thy  chamber  thou  sittest  alone, 
Alone,  alone,  ah  woe !  alone  ! 

The  world  is  happy,  the  world  is  wide, 
Kind  hearts  are  beating  on  every  side  ; 
Ah,  why  should  we  lie  so  coldly  curled 
Alone  in  the  shell  of  this  great  world  ? 
Why  should  we  any  more  be  alone  ? 
Alone,  alone,  ah  woe  !  alone ! 

Oh,  't  is  a  bitter  and  dreary  word, 
The  saddest  by  man's  ear  ever  heard ! 
We  each  are  young,  we  each  have  a  heart, 
Why  stand  we  ever  coldly  apart  ? 
Must  we  forever,  then,  be  alone  ? 
Alone,  alone,  ah  woe  !  alone  ! 


WITH  A  PRESSED  FLOWER 


WITH  A  PRESSED  FLOWER 

This  little  blossom  from  afar 
Hath  come  from  other  lands  to  thine ; 
For,  once,  its  white  and  drooping  star 
Could  see  its  shadow  in  the  Rhine* 

Perchance  some  fair-haired  German  maid 
Hath  plucked  one  from  the  selfsame  stalk, 
And  numbered  over,  half  afraid, 
Its  petals  in  her  evening  walk. 

"He  loves  me,  loves  me  not,"  she  cries ; 

"  He  loves  me  more  than  earth  or  heaven ! " 
And  then  glad  tears  have  filled  her  eyes 
To  find  the  number  was  uneven. 

And  thou  must  count  its  petals  well, 
Because  it  is  a  gift  from  me ; 
And  the  last  one  of  all  shall  tell 
Something  I 've  often  told  to  thee. 

But  here  at  home,  where  we  were  born, 
Thou  wilt  find  blossoms  just  as  true, 
Down-bending  every  summer  morn, 
With  freshness  of  New  England  dew. 

For  Nature,  ever  kind  to  love, 

Hath  granted  them  the  same  sweet  tongue* 

Whether  with  German  skies  above, 

Or  here  our  granite  rocks  among. 


EARLIER  POEMS 


THE  BEGGAR 

A  beggar  through  the  world  am  I, 
From  place  to  place  I  wander  by. 
Fill  up  my  pilgrim's  scrip  for  me, 
For  Christ's  sweet  sake  and  charity ! 

A  little  of  thy  steadfastness, 
Rounded  with  leafy  gracefulness, 
Old  oak,  give  me, 

That  the  world's  blasts  may  round  me  blow, 
And  I  yield  gently  to  and  fro, 
While  my  stout-hearted  trunk  below 
And  firm-set  roots  unshaken  be. 

Some  of  thy  stern,  unyielding  might, 
Enduring  still  through  day  and  night 
Rude  tempest-shock  and  withering  blight, 
That  I  may  keep  at  bay 
The  changeful  April  sky  of  chance 
And  the  strong  tide  of  circumstance,  — 
Give  me,  old  granite  gray. 

Some  of  thy  pensiveness  serene, 

Some  of  thy  never-dying  green, 

Put  in  this  scrip  of  mine, 

That  griefs  may  fall  like  snow-flakes  light, 

And  deck  me  in  a  robe  of  white, 

Ready  to  be  an  angel  bright, 

O  sweetly  mournful  pine. 


MY  LOVE 


A  little  of  thy  merriment, 
Of  thy  sparkling,  light  content, 
Give  me,  my  cheerful  brook, 
That  I  may  still  be  full  of  glee 
And  gladsomeness,  where'er  I  be, 
Though  fickle  fate  hath  prisoned  me 
In  some  neglected  nook. 

Ye  have  been  very  kind  and  good 
To  me,  since  I 've  been  in  the  wood ; 
Ye  have  gone  nigh  to  fill  my  heart ; 
But  good-bye,  kind  friends,  every  one, 
I 've  far  to  go  ere  set  of  sun ; 
Of  all  good  things  I  would  have  part. 
The  day  was  high  ere  I  could  start, 
And  so  my  journey 's  scarce  begun. 

Heaven  help  me !  how  could  I  forget 

To  beg  of  thee,  dear  violet ! 

Some  of  thy  modesty, 

That  blossoms  here  as  well,  unseen, 

As  if  before  the  world  thou  'dst  been, 

Oh,  give,  to  strengthen  me. 


MY  LOVE 
I. 

Not  as  all  other  women  are 
Is  she  that  to  my  soul  is  dear ; 
Her  glorious  fancies  come  from  far, 
Beneath  the  silver  evening-star, 
And  yet  her  heart  is  ever  near. 


EARLIER  POEMS 


II. 

Great  feelings  hath  she  of  her  own, 
Which  lesser  souls  may  never  know ; 
God  giveth  them  to  her  alone, 
And  sweet  they  are  as  any  tone 
Wherewith  the  wind  may  choose  to  blow. 

in. 

Yet  in  herself  she  dwelleth  not, 
Although  no  home  were  half  so  fair ; 
No  simplest  duty  is  forgot, 
Life  hath  no  dim  and  lowly  spot 
That  doth  not  in  her  sunshine  share. 

IV. 

She  doeth  little  kindnesses, 

Which  most  leave  undone,  or  despise : 

For  naught  that  sets  one  heart  at  ease, 

And  giveth  happiness  or  peace, 

Is  low-esteemed  in  her  eyes* 

v. 

She  hath  no  scorn  of  common  things, 
And,  though  she  seem  of  other  birth. 
Round  us  her  heart  intwines  and  clings, 
And  patiently  she  folds  her  wings 
To  tread  the  humble  paths  of  earth. 

VI. 

Blessing  she  is:  God  made  her  so, 
And  deeds  of  week-day  holiness 
Fall  from  her  noiseless  as  the  snow, 


MY  LOVE 


17 


Nor  hath  she  ever  chanced  to  know 
That  aught  were  easier  than  to  bless. 

She  is  most  fair,  and  thereunto 
Her  life  doth  rightly  harmonize ; 
Feeling  or  thought  that  was  not  true 
Ne'er  made  less  beautiful  the  blue 
Unclouded  heaven  of  her  eyes, 

VIII. 

She  is  a  woman :  one  in  whom 
The  spring-time  of  her  childish  years 
Hath  never  lost  its  fresh  perfume, 
Though  knowing  well  that  life  hath  room 
For  many  blights  and  many  tears, 

IX, 

I  love  her  with  a  love  as  still 
As  a  broad  river's  peaceful  might, 
Which,  by  high  tower  and  lowly  mill, 
Seems  following  its  own  wayward  will, 
And  yet  doth  ever  flow  aright. 

x. 

And,  on  its  full,  deep  breast  serene, 

Like  quiet  isles  my  duties  lie ; 

It  flows  around  them  and  between, 

And  makes  them  fresh  and  fair  and  green, 

Sweet  homes  wherein  to  live  and  die. 


18 


EARLIER  POEMS 


SUMMER  STORM 

Untkemtjlous  in  the  river  clear, 
Toward  the  sky's  image,  hangs  the  imaged  bridge ; 

So  still  the  air  that  I  can  hear 
The  slender  clarion  of  the  unseen  midge ; 

Out  of  the  stillness,  with  a  gathering  creep, 
Like  rising  wind  in  leaves,  which  now  decreases, 
Now  lulls,  now  swells,  and  all  the  while  increases, 

The  huddling  trample  of  a  drove  of  sheep 
Tilts  the  loose  planks,  and  then  as  gradually  ceases 

In  dust  on  the  other  side ;  life's  emblem  deep, 
A  confused  noise  between  two  silences, 
Finding  at  last  in  dust  precarious  peace. 
On  the  wide  marsh  the  purple-blossomed  grasses 

Soak  up  the  sunshine ;  sleeps  the  brimming  tide, 
Save  when  the  wedge-shaped  wake  in  silence  passes 

Of  some  slow  water-rat,  whose  sinuous  glide 
Wavers  the  sedge's  emerald  shade  from  side  to 
side ; 

But  up  the  west,  like  a  rock-shivered  surge, 

Climbs  a  great  cloud  edged  with  sun-whitened 
spray ; 

Huge  whirls  of  foam  boil  toppling  o'er  its  verge, 
And  falling  still  it  seems,  and  yet  it  climbs 
alway. 

Suddenly  all  the  sky  is  hid 
As  with  the  shutting  of  a  lid, 
One  by  one  great  drops  are  falling 
Doubtful  and  slow, 


SUMMER  STORM 


19 


Down  the  pane  they  are  crookedly  crawling, 

And  the  wind  breathes  low ; 
Slowly  the  circles  widen  on  the  river, 

Widen  and  mingle,  one  and  all ; 
Here  and  there  th^  slenderer  flowers  shiver, 

Struck  by  an  icy  rain-drop's  falL 

Now  on  the  hills  I  hear  the  thunder  mutter, 

The  wind  is  gathering  in  the  west ; 
The  upturned  leaves  first  whiten  and  flutter, 

Then  droop  to  a  fitful  rest ; 
Up  from  the  stream  with  sluggish  flap 
Struggles  the  gull  and  floats  away ; 
Nearer  and  nearer  rolls  the  thunder-clap, — 
We  shall  not  see  the  sun  go  down  to-day : 
Now  leaps  the  wind  on  the  sleepy  marsh, 

And  tramples  the  grass  with  terrified  feet, 
The  startled  river  turns  leaden  and  harsh. 

You  can  hear  the  quick  heart  of  the  tempest 
beat. 

Look  !  look !  that  livid  flash  ! 
And  instantly  follows  the  rattling  thunder, 
As  if  some  cloud-crag,  split  asunder, 

Fell,  splintering  with  a  ruinous  crash, 
On  the  Earth,  wThich  crouches  in  silence  under ; 

And  now  a  solid  gray  wall  of  rain 
Shuts  off  the  landscape,  mile  by  mile  ; 

For  a  breath's  space  I  see  the  blue  wood  again, 
And  ere  the  next  heart-beat,  the  wind-hurled  pile, 

That  seemed  but  now  a  league  aloof, 

Bursts  crackling  o'er  the  sun-parched  roof ; 


20 


EARLIER  POEMS 


Against  the  windows  the  storm  comes  dashing-, 
Through  tattered  foliage  the  hail  tears  crashing, 
The  blue  lightning  flashes, 
The  rapid  hail  clashes, 
The  white  waves  are  tumblings 

And,  in  one  baffled  roar, 
Like  the  toothless  sea  mumbling* 

A  rock-bristled  shore,, 
The  thunder  is  rumbling 
And  crashing  and  crumbling, — 
Will  silence  return  nevermore  ? 

Hush  !    Still  as  death, 
The  tempest  holds  his  breath 
As  from  a  sudden  will ; 
The  rain  stops  short,  but  from  the  eaves 
You  see  it  drop,  and  hear  it  from  the  leaves* 
All  is  so  bodingly  still ; 
Again,  now,,  now,  again 
Plashes  the  rain  in  heavy  gouts, 
The  crinkled  lightning 
Seems  ever  brightening, 
And  loud  and  long 
Again  the  thunder  shouts 
His  battle-song,  — 
One  quivering  flash, 
One  wildering  crash, 
Followed  by  silence  dead  and  dull, 
As  if  the  cloud,  let  go, 
Leapt  bodily  below 
To  whelm  the  earth  in  one  mad  overthrow, 
And  then  a  total  lull. 


LOVE 


21 


Gone,  gone,  so  soon  ! 
No  more  my  half-dazed  fancy  there, 
Can  shape  a /giant  in  the  air, 
No  more  I  see  his  streaming  hair, 
The  writhing  portent  of  his  form  ;  — 
The  pale  and  quiet  moon 
Makes  her  calm  forehead  bare, 
And  the  last  fragments  of  the  storm, 
Like  shattered  rigging  from  a  fight  at  sea, 
Silent  and  few,  are  drifting  over  me. 


LOVE 

True  Love  is  but  a  humble,  low-born  thing, 
And  hath  its  food  served  up  in  earthen  ware ; 
It  is  a  thing  to  walk  with,  hand  in  hand, 
Through  the  every-dayness  of  this  work-day  world, 
Baring  its  tender  feet  to  every  flint, 
Yet  letting  not  one  heart-beat  go  astray 
From  Beauty's  law  of  plainness  and  content ; 
A  simple,  fireside  thing,  whose  quiet  smile 
Can  warm  earth's  poorest  hovel  to  a  home ; 
Which,  when  our  autumn  cometh,  as  it  must, 
And  life  in  the  chill  wind  shivers  bare  and  leafless, 
Shall  still  be  blest  with  Indian-summer  youth 
In  bleak  November,  and,  with  thankful  heart, 
Smile  on  its  ample  stores  of  garnered  fruit, 
As  full  of  sunshine  to  our  aged  eyes 
As  when  it  nursed  the  blossoms  of  our  spring. 
Such  is  true  Love,  which  steals  into  the  heart 
With  feet  as  silent  as  the  lightsome  dawn 


22 


EARLIER  POEMS 


That  kisses  smooth  the  rough  brows  of  the  dark, 
And  hath  its  will  through  blissful  gentleness, 
Not  like  a  rocket,  which,  with  passionate  glare, 
Whirs  suddenly  up,  then  bursts,  and  leaves  the 
night 

Painfully  quivering  on  the  dazed  eyes  ; 

A  love  that  gives  and  takes,  that  seeth  faults, 

Not  with  flaw-seeking  eyes  like  needle  points, 

But  loving-kindly  ever  looks  them  down 

With  the  o'er  coming  faith  that  still  forgives  ; 

A  love  that  shall  be  new  and  fresh  each  hour, 

As  is  the  sunset's  golden  mystery, 

Or  the  sweet  coming  of  the  evening-star, 

Alike,  and  yet  most  unlike,  every  day, 

And  seeming  ever  best  and  fairest  note  ; 

A  love  that  doth  not  kneel  for  what  it  seeks, 

But  faces  Truth  and  Beauty  as  their  peer, 

Showing  its  worthiness  of  noble  thoughts 

By  a  clear  sense  of  inward  nobleness  ; 

A  love  that  in  its  object  flndeth  not 

All  grace  and  beauty,  and  enough  to  sate 

Its  thirst  of  blessing,  but,  in  all  of  good 

Found  there,  sees  but  the  Heaven-implanted  types 

Of  good  and  beauty  in  the  soul  of  man, 

And  traces,  in  the  simplest  heart  that  beats, 

A  family-likeness  to  its  chosen  one, 

That  claims  of  it  the  rights  of  brotherhood. 

For  love  is  blind  but  with  the  fleshly  eye, 

That  so  its  inner  sight  may  be  more  clear ; 

And  outward  shows  of  beauty  only  so 

Are  needful  at  the  first,  as  is  a  hand 

To  guide  and  to  uphold  an  infant's  steps  : 


TO  PERD1TA,  SINGING 


Fine  natures  need  them  not :  their  earnest  look 
Pierces  the  body's  mask  of  thin  disguise, 
And  beauty  ever  is  to  them  revealed, 
Behind  the  unshapeliest,  meanest  lump  of  clay, 
With  arms  outstretched  and  eager  face  ablaze, 
Yearning  to  be  but  understood  and  loved. 


TO  PERDITA,  SINGING 

Thy  voice  is  like  a  fountain, 

Leaping  up  in  clear  moonshine ; 
Silver,  silver,  ever  mounting, 
Ever  sinking, 
Without  thinking, 
To  that  brimful  heart  of  thine. 
Every  sad  and  happy  feeling, 
Thou  hast  had  in  bygone  years, 
Through  thy  lips  comes  stealing,  stealing, 

Clear  and  low ; 
All  thy  smiles  and  all  thy  tears 
In  thy  voice  awaken, 
And  sweetness,  wove  of  joy  and  woe, 
From  their  teaching  it  hath  taken : 
Feeling  and  music  move  together, 
Like  a  swan  and  shadow  ever 
Floating  on  a  sky-blue  river 
In  a  day  of  cloudless  weather. 

It  hath  caught  a  touch  of  sadness, 

Yet  it  is  not  sad  ; 
It  hath  tones  of  clearest  gladness, 


EARLIER  POEMS 


Yet  it  is  not  glad ; 
A  dim,  sweet  twilight  voice  it  is 

Where  to-day's  accustomed  blue 
Is  over-grayed  with  memories, 

With  starry  feelings  quivered  through. 

Thy  voice  is  like  a  fountain 
Leaping  up  in  sunshine  bright, 

And  I  never  weary  counting 
Its  clear  droppings,  lone  and  single, 
Or  when  in  one  full  gush  they  mingle, 

Shooting  in  melodious  light. 

Thine  is  music  such  as  yields 
Feelings  of  old  brooks  and  fields, 
And,  around  this  pent-up  room, 
Sheds  a  woodland,  free  perfume ; 

Oh,  thus  forever  sing  to  me ! 
Oh,  thus  forever ! 
The  green,  bright  grass  of  childhood  bring  to  me, 
Flowing  like  an  emerald  river, 
And  the  bright  blue  skies  above  ! 
Oh,  sing  them  back,  as  fresh  as  ever, 
Into  the  bosom  of  my  love,  — 
The  sunshine  and  the  merriment, 
The  unsought,  evergreen  content, 

Of  that  never  cold  time, 
The  joy,  that,  like  a  clear  breeze,  went 

Through  and  through  the  old  time ! 

Peace  sits  within  thine  eyes, 

With  white  hands  crossed  in  joyful  rest, 


TO  PERDITA,  SINGING 

While,  through  thy  lips  and  face,  arise 
The  melodies  from  out  thy  breast ; 

She  sits  and  sings, 

With  folded  wings 

And  white  arms  crost, 
"  Weep  not  for  bygone  things, 

They  are  not  lost : 
The  beauty  which  the  summer  time 
O'er  thine  opening  spirit  shed, 
The  forest  oracles  sublime 
That  filled  thy  soul  with  joyous  dread, 
The  scent  of  every  smallest  flower 
That  made  thy  heart  sweet  for  an  hour, 
Yea,  every  holy  influence, 
Flowing  to  thee,  thou  knewest  not  whence, 
In  thine  eyes  to-day  is  seen, 
Fresh  as  it  hath  ever  been  ; 
Promptings  of  Nature,  beckonings  sweet, 
Whatever  led  thy  childish  feet, 
Still  will  linger  unawares 
The  guiders  of  thy  silver  hairs  ; 
Every  look  and  every  word 
Which  thou  givest  forth  to-day, 
Tell  of  the  singing  of  the  bird 
Whose  music  stilled  thy  boyish  play." 

Thy  voice  is  like  a  fountain, 
Twinkling  up  in  sharp  starlight, 
When  the  moon  behind  the  mountain 
Dims  the  low  East  with  faintest  white, 

Ever  darkling, 

Ever  sparkling, 


26 


EARLIER  POEMS 


We  know  not  if  't  is  dark  or  bright ; 
But,  when  the  great  moon  hath  rolled  round, 

And,  sudden-slow,  its  solemn  power 
Grows  from  behind  its  black,  clear-edged  bound, 

No  spot  of  dark  the  fountain  keepeth, 

But,  swift  as  opening  eyelids,  leapeth 

Into  a  waving  silver  flower. 


THE  MOON 

My  soul  was  like  the  sea, 

Before  the  moon  was  made, 
Moaning  in  vague  immensity, 

Of  its  own  strength  afraid, 

Unrestful  and  unstaid. 
Through  every  rift  it  foamed  in  vain, 

About  its  earthly  prison, 
Seeking  some  unknown  thing  in  pain, 
And  sinking  restless  back  again, 

For  yet  no  moon  had  risen : 
Its  only  voice  a  vast  dumb  moan, 

Of  utterless  anguish  speaking, 
It  lay  unhopefully  alone, 

And  lived  but  in  an  aimless  seeking,, 

So  was  my  soul ;  but  when 't  was  full 

Of  unrest  to  o'erloading, 
A  voice  of  something  beautiful 

Whispered  a  dim  foreboding, 
And  yet  so  soft,  so  sweet,  so  low, 
It  had  not  more  of  joy  than  woe  ; 


REMEMBERED  MUSIC  27 


And,  as  the  sea  doth  oft  lie  still, 

Making  its  waters  meet, 
As  if  by  an  unconscious  will, 

For  the  moon's  silver  feet, 
So  lay  my  soul  within  mine  eyes 
When  thou,  its  guardian  moon,  didst  rise. 

And  now,  howe'er  its  waves  above 

May  toss  and  seem  uneaseful, 
One  strong,  eternal  law  of  Love, 

With  guidance  sure  and  peaceful, 
As  calm  and  natural  as  breath, 
Moves  its  great  deeps  through  life  and  death. 

EEMEMBERED  MUSIC 

A  FRAGMENT 

Thick-rushing,  like  an  ocean  vast 

Of  bisons  the  far  prairie  shaking, 
The  notes  crowd  heavily  and  fast 
As  surfs,  one  plunging  while  the  last 

Draws  seaward  from  its  foamy  breaking. 

Or  in  low  murmurs  they  began, 

Rising  and  rising  momently, 
As  o'er  a  harp  iEolian 
A  fitful  breeze,  until  they  ran 

Up  to  a  sudden  ecstasy. 

And  then,  like  minute-drops  of  rain 
Ringing  in  water  silverly, 


28  EARLIER  POEMS 

They  lingering  dropped  and  dropped  again, 
Till  it  was  almost  like  a  pain 

To  listen  when  the  next  would  be, 

SONG 

TO  M.  L. 

A  lily  thou  wast  when  I  saw  thee  first, 
A  lily-bud  not  opened  quite, 
That  hourly  grew  more  pure  and  white, 
By  morning,  and  noontide,  and  evening  nursed : 
In  all  of  nature  thou  hadst  thy  share  ; 
Thou  wast  waited  on 
By  the  wind  and  sun  ; 
The  rain  and  the  dew  for  thee  took  care  ; 
It  seemed  thou  never  couldst  be  more  fair. 

A  lily  thou  wast  when  I  saw  thee  first, 
A  lily-bud ;  but  oh,  how  strange, 
How  full  of  wonder  was  the  change, 

When,  ripe  with  all  sweetness,  thy  full  bloom 
burst ! 

How  did  the  tears  to  my  glad  eyes  start, 
When  the  woman-flower 
Reached  its  blossoming  hour, 
And  I  saw  the  warm  deeps  of  thy  golden  heart ! 

Glad  death  may  pluck  thee,  but  never  before 
The  gold  dust  of  thy  bloom  divine 
Hath  dropped  from  thy  heart  into  mine, 

To  quicken  its  faint  germs  of  heavenly  lore  ; 


ALLEGRA 


29 


For  no  breeze  comes  nigh  thee  but  carries  away 

Some  impulses  bright 

Of  fragrance  and  light, 
Which  fall  upon  souls  that  are  lone  and  astray, 
To  plant  fruitful  hopes  of  the  flower  of  day. 


ALLEGRA 

I  WOULD  more  natures  were  like  thine, 
That  never  casts  a  glance  before, 

Thou  Hebe,  who  thy  heart's  bright  wine 
So  lavishly  to  all  dost  pour,  * 

That  we  who  drink  forget  to  pine, 
And  can  but  dream  of  bliss  in  store. 

Thou  canst  not  see  a  shade  in  life ; 

With  sunward  instinct  thou  dost  rise, 
And,  leaving  clouds  below  at  strife, 

Gazest  undazzled  at  the  skies, 
With  all  their  blazing  splendors  rife, 

A  songful  lark  with  eagle's  eyes. 

Thou  wast  some  foundling  whom  the  Hours 
Nursed,  laughing,  with  the  milk  of  Mirth ; 

Some  influence  more  gay  than  ours 
Hath  ruled  thy  nature  from  its  birth, 

As  if  thy  natal  stars  were  flowers 

That  shook  their  seeds  round  thee  on  earth. 

And  thou,  to  lull  thine  infant  rest, 
Wast  cradled  like  an  Indian  child  ; 


EARLIER  POEMS 


All  pleasant  winds  from  south  and  west 
With  lullabies  thine  ears  beguiled, 

Rocking  thee  in  thine  oriole's  nest, 

Till  Nature  looked  at  thee  and  smiled. 

Thine  every  fancy  seems  to  borrow 
A  sunlight  from  thy  childish  years, 

Making  a  golden  cloud  of  sorrow, 
A  hope-lit  rainbow  out  of  tears,  — 

Thy  heart  is  certain  of  to-morrow, 
Though  'yond  to-day  it  never  peers. 

I  would  more  natures  were  like  thine, 

So  innocently  wild  and  free, 
Whose  sad  thoughts,  even,  leap  and  shine, 

Like  sunny  wavelets  in  the  sea, 
Making  us  mindless  of  the  brine, 

In  gazing  on  the  brilliancy. 


THE  FOUNTAIN 

Into  the  sunshine, 

Full  of  the  light, 
Leaping  and  flashing 

From  morn  till  night ; 

Into  the  moonlight, 
Whiter  than  snow, 

Waving  so  flower-like 
When  the  winds  blow ; 


THE  FOUNTAIN 


Into  the  starlight 
Rushing  in  spray, 

Happy  at  midnight, 
Happy  by  day ; 

Ever  in  motion, 

Blithesome  and  cheery, 
Still  climbing  heavenward, 

Never  aweary ; 

Glad  of  all  weathers, 
Still  seeming  best, 

Upward  or  downward, 
Motion  thy  rest ; 

Full  of  a  nature 
Nothing  can  tame, 

Changed  every  moment, 
Ever  the  same ; 

Ceaseless  aspiring, 

Ceaseless  content, 
Darkness  or  sunshine 

Thy  element; 

Glorious  fountain, 

Let  my  heart  be 
Fresh,  changeful,  constant, 

Upward,  like  thee ! 


32  EARLIER  POEMS 

ODE 
I. 

In  the  old  days  of  awe  and  keen-eyed  wonder, 
The  Poet's  song  with  blood-warm   truth  was 
rife ; 

He  saw  the  mysteries  which  circle  under 
The  outward  shell  and  skin  of  daily  life. 

Nothing  to  him  were  fleeting  time  and  fashion, 
'  His  soul  was  led  by  the  eternal  law ; 

There  was  in  him  no  hope  of  fame,  no  passion, 
But  with  calm,  godlike  eyes  he  only  saw. 

He  did  not  sigh  o'er  heroes  dead  and  buried, 
Chief-mourner  at  the  Golden  Age's  hearse, 

Nor  deem  that  souls  whom  Charon  grim  had  fer- 
ried 

Alone  were  fitting  themes  of  epic  verse  : 
He  could  believe  the  promise  of  to-morrow, 

And  feel  the  wondrous  meaning  of  to-day ; 
He  had  a  deeper  faith  in  holy  sorrow 

Than  the  world's  seeming  loss  could  take  away. 
To  know  the  heart  of  all  things  was  his  duty, 

All  things  did  sing  to  him  to  make  him  wise, 
And,  with  a  sorrowful  and  conquering  beauty, 

The  soul  of  all  looked  grandly  from  his  eyes. 
He  gazed  on  all  within  him  and  without  him, 

He  watched  the  flowing  of  Time's  steady  tide, 
And  shapes  of  glory  floated  all  about  him 

And  whispered  to  him,  and  he  prophesied. 
Than  all  men  he  more  fearless  was  and  freer, 

And  all  his  brethren  cried  with  one  accord,  — 


ODE 


33 


"  Behold  the  holy  man  !    Behold  the  Seer  ! 

Him  who  hath  spoken  with  the  unseen  Lord ! 99 
He  to  his  heart  with  large  embrace  had  taken 

The  universal  sorrow  of  mankind, 
And,  from  that  root,  a  shelter  never  shaken, 

The  tree  of  wisdom  grew  with  sturdy  rind. 
He  could  interpret  well  the  wondrous  voices 

Which  to  the  calm  and  silent  spirit  come ; 
He  knew  that  the  One  Soul  no  more  rejoices 

In  the  star's  anthem  than  the  insect's  hum. 
He  in  his  heart  was  ever  meek  and  humble, 

And  yet  with  kingly  pomp  his  numbers  ran, 
As  he  foresaw  how  all  things  false  should  crumble 

Before  the  free,  uplifted  soul  of  man : 
And,  when  he  was  made  full  to  overflowing 

With  all  the  loveliness  of  heaven  and  earth, 
Out  rushed  his  song,  like  molten  iron  glowing, 

To  show  God  sitting  by  the  humblest  hearth. 
With  calmest  courage  he  was  ever  ready 

To  teach  that  action  was  the  truth  of  thought, 
And,  with  strong  arm  and  purpose  firm  and  steady, 

An  anchor  for  the  drifting  world  he  wrought. 
So  did  he  make  the  meanest  man  partaker 

Of  all  his  brother-gods  unto  him  gave ; 
All  souls  did  reverence  him  and  name  him  Maker, 

And  when  he  died  heaped  temples  on  his  grave. 
And  still  his  deathless  words  of  light  are  swim- 
ming 

Serene  throughout  the  great  deep  infinite 
Of  human  soul,  un waning  and  undimming, 
To  cheer  and  guide  the  mariner  at  night. 


34 


EARLIER  POEMS 


II. 

But  now  the  Poet  is  an  empty  rhymer 

Who  lies  with  idle  elbow  on  the  grass, 
And  fits  his  singing,  like  a  cunning  timer, 

To  all  men's  prides  and  fancies  as  they  pass. 
Not  his  the  song,  which,  in  its  metre  holy, 

Chimes  with  the  music  of  the  eternal  stars, 
Humbling  the  tyrant,  lifting  up  the  lowly, 

And  sending  sun.  through  the  soul's  prison-bars. 
Maker  no  more,  —  oh  no  !  unmaker  rather, 

For  he  unmakes  who  doth  not  all  put  forth 
The  power  given  freely  by  our  loving  Father 

To  show  the  body's  dross,  the  spirit's  worth. 
Awake !  great  spirit  of  the  ages  olden ! 

Shiver  the  mists  that  hide  thy  starry  lyre, 
And  let  man's  soul  be  yet  again  beholden 

To  thee  for  wings  to  soar  to  her  desire. 
Oh,  prophesy  no  more  to-morrow's  splendor, 

Be  no  more  shamefaced  to  speak  out  for  Truth, 
Lay  on  her  altar  all  the  gushings  tender, 

The  hope,  the  fire,  the  loving  faith  of  youth ! 
Oh,  prophesy  no  more  the  Maker's  coming, 

Say  not  his  onward  footsteps  thou  canst  hear 
In  the  dim  void,  like  to  the  awful  humming 

Of  the  great  wings  of  some  new-lighted  sphere ! 
Oh,  prophesy  no  more,  but  be  the  Poet ! 

This  longing  was  but  granted  unto  thee 
That,  when  all  beauty  thou  couldst  feel  and  know 
it, 

That  beauty  in  its  highest  thou  shouldst  be. 
O  thou  who  moanest  tost  with  sealike  longings. 
Who  dimly  hearest  voices  call  on  thee, 


ODE 


35 


Whose  soul  is  overfilled  with  mighty  throngings 

Of  love,  and  fear,  and  glorious  agony, 
Thou  of  the  toil-strung  hands  and  iron  sinews 

And  soul  by  Mother  Earth  with  freedom  fed, 
In  whom  the  hero-spirit  yet  continues, 

The  old  free  nature  is  not  chained  or  dead, 
Arouse  !  let  thy  soul  break  in  music-thunder, 

Let  loose  the  ocean  that  is  in  thee  pent, 
Pour  forth  thy  hope,  thy  fear,  thy  love,  thy  wonder, 

And  tell  the  age  what  all  its  signs  have  meant. 
Where'er  thy  wildered  crowd  of  brethren  jostles, 

Where'er  there  lingers  but  a  shadow  of  wrong, 
There  still  is  need  of  martyrs  and  apostles, 

There  still  are  texts  for  never-dying  song : 
From  age  to  age  man's  still  aspiring  spirit 

Finds  wider  scope  and  sees  with  clearer  eyes, 
And  thou  in  larger  measure  dost  inherit 

What  made  thy  great  forerunners  free  and  wise. 
Sit  thou  enthroned  where  the  Poet's  mountain 

Above  the  thunder  lifts  its  silent  peak, 
And  roll  thy  songs  down  like  a  gathering  fountain, 

They  all  may  drink  and  find  the  rest  they  seek. 
Sing  !  there  shall  silence  grow  in  earth  and  heaven, 

A  silence  of  deep  awe  and  wondering ; 
For,  listening  gladly,  bend  the  angels,  even, 

To  hear  a  mortal  like  an  angel  sing. 

in. 

Among  the  toil-worn  poor  my  soul  is  seeking 
For  who  shall  bring  the  Maker's  name  to  light, 

To  be  the  voic^  of  that  almighty  speaking 
Which  every  age  demands  to  do  it  right. 


36 


EARLIER  POEMS 


Proprieties  our  silken  bards  environ  ; 

He  who  would  be  the  tongue  of  this  wide  land 
Must  string  his  harp  with  chords  of  sturdy  iron 

And  strike  it  with  a  toil-imbrowned  hand ; 
One  who  hath  dwelt  with  Nature  well  attended, 

Who  hath  learnt  wisdom  from  her  mystic  books, 
Whose  soul  with  all   her   countless   lives  hath 
blended, 

So  that  all  beauty  awes  us  in  his  looks  ; 
Who  not  with  body's  waste  his  soul  hath  pam- 
pered, 

Who  as  the  clear  northwestern  wind  is  free, 
Who  walks  with  Form's  observances  unhampered, 

And  follows  the  One  Will  obediently ; 
Whose  eyes,  like  windows  on  a  breezy  summit, 

Control  a  lovely  prospect  every  way ; 
Who  doth  not  sound  God's  sea  with  earthly  plum- 
met, 

And  find  a  bottom  still  of  worthless  clay ; 
Who  heeds  not  how  the  lower  gusts  are  working, 

Knowing  that  one  sure  wind  blows  on  above, 
And  sees,  beneath  the  foulest  faces  lurking, 

One  God-built  shrine  of  reverence  and  love ; 
Who  sees  all  stars  that  wheel  their  shining  marches 

Around  the  centre  fixed  of  Destiny, 
Where  the  encircling  soul  serene  o'erarches 

The  moving  globe  of  being  like  a  sky ; 
Who  feels  that  God  and  Heaven's  great  deeps  are 
nearer 

Him  to  whose  heart  his  fellow-man  is  nigh, 
Who  doth  not  hold  his  soul's  own  freedom  dearer 
Than  that  of  all  his  brethren,  low  or  high  ; 


THE  FATHERLAND 


37 


Who  to  the  Right  can  feel  himself  the  truer 
For  being  gently  patient  with  the  wrong, 

Who  sees  a  brother  in  the  evil-doer, 

And  finds  in   Love  the   heart's-blood  of  his 
song ;  — 

This,  this  is  he  for  whom  the  world  is  waiting 

To  sing  the  beatings  of  its  mighty  heart, 
Too  long  hath  it  been  patient  with  the  grating 

Of  scrannel-pipes,  and  heard  it  misnamed  Art. 
To  him  the  smiling  soul  of  man  shall  listen, 

Laying  awhile  its  crown  of  thorns  aside, 
And  once  again  in  every  eye  shall  glisten 

The  glory  of  a  nature  satisfied. 
His  verse  shall  have  a  great  commanding  motion, 

Heaving  and  swelling  with  a  melody 
Learnt  of  the  sky,  the  river,  and  the  ocean, 

And  all  the  pure,  majestic  things  that  be. 
Awake,  then,  thou  !  we  pine  for  thy  great  presence 

To  make  us  feel  the  soul  once  more  sublime, 
We  are  of  far  too  infinite  an  essence 

To  rest  contented  with  the  lies  of  Time. 
Speak  out !  and  lo  !  a  hush  of  deepest  wonder 

Shall  sink  o'er  all  this  many- voiced  scene, 
As  when  a  sudden  burst  of  rattling  thunder 

Shatters  the  blueness  of  a  sky  serene. 


THE  FATHERLAND 


Where  is^the  true  man's  fatherland? 
Is  it  where  he  by  chance  is  born  ? 
Doth  not  the  yearning  spirit  scorn 


EARLIER  POEMS 

In  such  scant  borders  to  be  spanned  ? 
Oh  yes  !  his  fatherland  must  be 
As  the  blue  heaven  wide  and  free ! 

Is  it  alone  where  freedom  is, 

Where  God  is  God  and  man  is  man  ? 

Doth  he  not  claim  a  broader  span 
For  the  soul's  love  of  home  than  this  ? 
Oh  yes  !  his  fatherland  must  be 
As  the  blue  heaven  wide  and  free ! 

Where'er  a  human  heart  doth  wear 
Joy's  myrtle-wreath  or  sorrow's  gyves, 
Where'er  a  human  spirit  strives 

After  a  life  more  true  and  fair, 

There  is  the  true  man's  birthplace  grand, 

His  is  a  world-wide  fatherland  ! 

Where'er  a  single  slave  doth  pine, 

Where'er  one  man  may  help  another,  — 
Thank  God  for  such  a  birthright,  brother, 

That  spot  of  earth  is  thine  and  mine ! 

There  is  the  true  man's  birthplace  grand, 

His  is  a  world-wide  fatherland ! 


THE  FORLORN 

The  night  is  dark,  the  stinging  sleet, 
Swept  by  the  bitter  gusts  of  air, 

Drives  whistling  down  the  lonely  street, 
And  glazes  on  the  pavement  bare. 


THE  FORLORN 


The  street-lamps  flare  and  struggle  dim 
Through  the  gray  sleet-clouds  as  they  pass, 

Or,  governed  by  a  boisterous  whim, 
Drop  down  and  rustle  on  the  glass. 

One  poor,  heart-broken,  outcast  girl 
Faces  the  east-wind's  searching  flaws, 

And,  as  about  her  heart  they  whirl, 
Her  tattered  cloak  more  tightly  draws. 

The  flat  brick  walls  look  cold  and  bleak, 
Her  bare  feet  to  the  sidewalk  freeze  ; 

Yet  dares  she  not  a  shelter  seek, 

Though  faint  with  hunger  and  disease. 

The  sharp  storm  cuts  her  forehead  bare, 
And,  piercing  through  her  garments  thin, 

Beats  on  her  shrunken  breast,  and  there 
Makes  colder  the  cold  heart  within. 

She  lingers  where  a  ruddy  glow 

Streams  outward  through  an  open  shutter, 
Adding  more  bitterness  to  woe, 

More  loneness  to  desertion  utter. 

One  half  the  cold  she  had  not  felt 
Until  she  saw  this  gush  of  light 

Spread  warmly  forth,  and  seem  to  melt 
Its  slow  way  through  the  deadening  night. 

.  She  hears  a  Woman's  voice  within, 

Singing  sweet  words  her  childhood  knew, 


EARLIER  POEMS 

And  years  of  misery  and  sin 

Furl  off,  and  leave  her  heaven  blue. 

Her  freezing  heart,  like  one  who  sinks 
Outwearied  in  the  drifting  snow, 

Drowses  to  deadly  sleep  and  thinks 
No  longer  of  its  hopeless  woe : 

Old  fields,  and  clear  blue  summer  days, 
Old  meadows,  green  with  grass,  and  trees 

That  shimmer  through  the  trembling  haze 
And  whiten  in  the  western  breeze, 

Old  faces,  all  the  friendly  past 

Rises  within  her  heart  again, 
And  sunshine  from  her  childhood  cast 

Makes  summer  of  the  icy  rain. 

Enhaloed  by  a  mild,  warm  glow, 

From  man's  humanity  apart, 
She  hears  old  footsteps  wandering  slow 

Through  the  lone  chambers  of  the  heart. 

Outside  the  porch  before  the  door, 
Her  cheek  upon  the  cold,  hard  stone, 

She  lies,  no  longer  foul  and  poor, 
No  longer  dreary  and  alone. 

Next  morning  something  heavily 

Against  the  opening  door  did  weighs 

And  there,  from  sin  and  sorrow  free, 
A  woman  on  the  threshold  lay. 


MIDNIGHT 


A  smile  upon  the  wan  lips  told 

That  she  had  found  a  calm  release, 

And  that,  from  out  the  want  and  cold. 
The  song  had  borne  her  soul  in  peace* 

For,  whom  the  heart  of  man  shuts  out, 
Sometimes  the  heart  of  God  takes  in, 

And  fences  them  all  round  about 

With  silence  mid  the  world's  loud  din ; 

And  one  of  his  great  charities 
Is  Music,  and  it  doth  not  scorn 

To  close  the  lids  upon  the  eyes 
Of  the  polluted  and  forlorn ; 

Far  was  she  from  her  childhood's  home, 
Farther  in  guilt  had  wandered  thence. 

Yet  thither  it  had  bid  her  come 
To  die  in  maiden  innocence. 


MIDNIGHT 

The  moon  shines  white  and  silent 
On  the  mist,  which,  like  a  tide 

Of  some  enchanted  ocean, 

O'er  the  wide  marsh  doth  glide9 

Spreading  its  ghost-like  billows 
Silently  far  and  wide. 

A  vague  ^nd  starry  magic 
Makes  all  things  mysteries, 


EARLIER  POEMS 


And  lures  the  earth's  dumb  spirit 
Up  to  the  longing  skies ; 

I  seem  to  hear  dim  whispers, 
And  tremulous  replies. 

The  fireflies  o'er  the  meadow 

In  pulses  come  and  go ; 
The  elm-trees'  heavy  shadow 

Weighs  on  the  grass  below ; 
And  faintly  from  the  distance 

The  dreaming  cock  doth  crow. 

All  things  look  strange  and  mystic. 

The  very  bushes  swell 
And  take  wild  shapes  and  motions, 

As  if  beneath  a  spell ; 
They  seem  not  the  same  lilacs 

From  childhood  known  so  welL 

The  snow  of  deepest  silence 
O'er  everything  doth  fall, 

So  beautiful  and  quiet, 
And  yet  so  like  a  pall ; 

As  if  all  life  were  ended, 
And  rest  were  come  to  all. 

O  wild  and  wondrous  midnight, 
There  is  a  might  in  tfyee 

To  make  the  charmed  body 
Almost  like  spirit  be, 

And  give  it  some  faint  glimpses 
Of  immortality ! 


THE  HERITAGE 


43 


A  PRAYER 

God  !  do  not  let  my  loved  one  die, 
But  rather  wait  until  the  time 

That  I  am  grown  in  purity- 
Enough  to  enter  thy  pure  clime, 

Then  take  me,  I  will  gladly  go, 

So  that  my  love  remain  below ! 

Oh,  let  her  stay  !    She  is  by  birth 

What  I  through  death  must  learn  to  be ; 

We  need  her  more  on  our  poor  earth 

Than  thou  canst  need  in  heaven  with  thee : 

She  hath  her  wings  already,  I 

Must  burst  this  earth-shell  ere  I  fly. 

Then,  God,  take  me  !    We  shall  be  near, 
More  near  than  ever,  each  to  each : 

Her  angel  ears  will  find  more  clear 

My  heavenly  than  my  earthly  speech  ;  . 

And  still,  as  I  draw  nigh  to  thee, 

Her  soul  and  mine  shall  closer  be. 


THE  HERITAGE 

The  rich  man's  son  inherits  lands, 

And  piles  of  brick  and  stone,  and  gold, 

And  he  inherits  soft  white  hands, 
And  tender  flesh  that  fears  the  cold, 
Nor  dares  to  wear  a  garment  old ; 


EARLIER  POEMS 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

One  scarce  would  wish  to  hold  in  fee* 

The  rich  man's  son  inherits  cares  ; 

The  bank  may  break,  the  factory  burn, 

A  breath  may  burst  his  bubble  shares, 
And  soft  white  hands  could  hardly  earn 
A  living  that  would  serve  his  turn  i 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

One  scarce  would  wish  to  hold  in  fee* 

The  rich  man's  son  inherits  wants, 
His  stomach  craves  for  dainty  fare  ; 

With  sated  heart,  he  hears  the  pants 
Of  toiling  hinds  with  brown  arms  bare, 
And  wearies  in  his  easy-chair  ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

One  scarce  would  wish  to  hold  in  fee* 

What  doth  the  poor  man's  son  inherit  ? 

Stout  muscles  and  a  sinewy  heart, 
A  hardy  frame,  a  hardier  spirit ; 

King  of  two  hands,  he  does  his  part 

In  every  useful  toil  and  art ; 
A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 
A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

What  doth  the  poor  man's  son  inherit  ? 
Wishes  o'erjoyed  with  humble  things, 

A  rank  adjudged  by  toil-won  merit, 

Content  that  from  employment  springs, 
A  heart  that  in  his  labor  sings ; 


THE  HERITAGE 


A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

What  doth  the  poor  man's  son  inherit? 
A  patience  learned  of  being  poor, 

Courage,  if  sorrow  come,  to  bear  it, 
A  fellow-feeling  that  is  sure 
To  make  the  outcast  bless  his  door ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

O  rich  man's  son  !  there  is  a  toil 
That  with  all  others  level  stands ; 

Large  charity  doth  never  soil, 

But  only  whiten,  soft  white  hands ; 
This  is  the  best  crop  from  thy  lands, 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

Worth  being  rich  to  hold  in  fee. 

O  poor  man's  son  !  scorn  not  thy  state  ; 
There  is  worse  weariness  than  thine, 

In  merely  being  rich  and  great ; 
Toil  only  gives  the  soul  to  shine, 
And  makes  rest  fragrant  and  benign ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

Worth  being  poor  to  hold  in  fee. 

Both,  heirs  to  some  six  feet  of  sod, 
Are  equal  in  the  earth  at  last ; 

Both,  children  of  the  same  dear  God, 
Prove  title  to  your  heirship  vast 
By  record  ^of  a  well-filled  past ; 


EARLIER  POEMS 


A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me. 
Well  worth  a  life  to  hold  in  fee. 


THE  KOSE  :  A  BALLAD 
I. 

In  his  tower  sat  the  poet 

Gazing  on  the  roaring  sea, 
"Take  this  rose/'  he  sighed,  "and  throw  it 

Where  there 's  none  that  loveth  me. 
On  the  rock  the  billow  bursteth 

And  sinks  back  into  the  seas, 
But  in  vain  my  spirit  thirsteth 

So  to  burst  and  be  at  ease. 
Take,  O  sea  !  the  tender  blossom 

That  hath  lain  against  my  breast ; 
On  thy  black  and  angry  bosom 

It  will  find  a  surer  rest. 
Life  is  vain,  and  love  is  hollow, 

Ugly  death  stands  there  behind, 
Hate  and  scorn  and  hunger  follow 

Him  that  toileth  for  his  kind." 
Forth  into  the  night  he  hurled  it, 

And  with  bitter  smile  did  mark 
How  the  surly  tempest  whirled  it 

Swift  into  the  hungry  dark. 
Foam  and  spray  drive  back  to  leeward, 

And  the  gale,  with  dreary  moan, 
Drifts  the  helpless  blossom  seaward, 

Through  the  breakers  all  alone. 


THE  ROSE:  A  BALLAD 


Stands  a  maiden,  on  the  morrow, 

Musing  by  the  wave-beat  strand, 
Half  in  hope  and  half  in  sorrow, 

Tracing  words  upon  the  sand  : 
"  Shall  I  ever  then  behold  him 

Who  hath  been  my  life  so  long, 
Ever  to  this  sick  heart  fold  him, 

Be  the  spirit  of  his  song  ? 
Touch  not,  sea,  the  blessed  letters 

I  have  traced  upon  thy  shore, 
Spare  his  name  whose  spirit  fetters 

Mine  with  love  forevermore !  " 
Swells  the  tide  and  overflows  it, 

But,  with  omen  pure  and  meet, 
Brings  a  little  rose,  and  throws  it 

Humbly  at  the  maiden's  feet. 
Full  of  bliss  she  takes  the  token, 

And,  upon  her  snowy  breast, 
Soothes  the  ruffled  petals  broken 

With  the  ocean's  fierce  unrest. 
"  Love  is  thine,  O  heart !  and  surely 

Peace  shall  also  be  thine  own, 
For  the  heart  that  trusteth  purely 

Never  long  can  pine  alone." 


in. 


In  his  tower  sits  the  poet, 

Blisses  new  and  strange  to  him 

Fill  his  heart  and  overflow  it 
With  a  winder  sweet  and  dim. 


EARLIER  POEMS 


Up  the  beach  the  ocean  slideth 

With  a  whisper  of  delight, 
And  the  moon  in  silence  glideth 

Through  the  peaceful  blue  of  night. 
Rippling  o'er  the  poet's  shoulder 

Flows  a  maiden's  golden  hair, 
Maiden  lips,  with  love  grown  bolder, 

Kiss  his  moon-lit  forehead  bare. 
"  Life  is  joy,  and  love  is  power, 

Death  all  fetters  doth  unbind, 
Strength  and  wisdom  only  flower 

When  we  toil  for  all  our  kind. 
Hope  is  truth,  —  the  future  giveth 

More  than  present  takes  away, 
And  the  soul  forever  liveth 

Nearer  God  from  day  to  day." 
Not  a  word  the  maiden  uttered, 

Fullest  hearts  are  slow  to  speak, 
But  a  withered  rose-leaf  fluttered 

Down  upon  the  poet's  cheek. 


SONG 

Violet  !  sweet  violet ! 
Thine  eyes  are  full  of  tears ; 
Are  they  wet 
Even  yet 
With  the  thought  of  other  years  ? 
Or  with  gladness  are  they  full, 
For  the  night  so  beautiful, 
And  longing  for  those  far-off  spheres  ? 


SONG 


49 


Loved  one  of  my  youth  thou  wast, 
Of  my  merry  youth, 
And  I  see, 
Tearfully, 
All  the  fair  and  sunny  past, 
All  its  openness  and  truth, 
Ever  fresh  and  green  in  thee 
As  the  moss  is  in  the  sea. 

Thy  little  heart,  that  hath  with  love 
Grown  colored  like  the  sky  above, 
On  which  thou  lookest  ever,  — 
Can  it  know 
All  the  woe 
Of  hope  for  what  returneth  never, 
All  the  sorrow  and  the  longing 
To  these  hearts  of  ours  belonging  ? 

Out  on  it !  no  foolish  pining 

For  the  sky 

Dims  thine  eye, 
Or  for  the  stars  so  calmly  shining ; 
Like  thee  let  this  soul  of  mine 
Take  hue  from  that  wheref or  I  long, 
Self -stayed  and  high,  serene  and  strong, 
Not  satisfied  with  hoping  —  but  divine. 

Violet !  dear  violet ! 

Thy  blue  eyes  are  only  wet 
With  joy  and  love  of  Him  who  sent  thee, 
And  for  the  fulfilling  sense 
Of  that  glad  obedience 

Which  made  thee  all  that  Nature  meant  thee ! 


EARLIER  POEMS 


ROSALINE 

Thou  look'dst  on  me  all  yesternight, 
Thine  eyes  were  blue,  thy  hair  was  bright 
As  when  we  murmured  our  troth-plight 
Beneath  the  thick  stars,  Rosaline ! 
Thy  hair  was  braided  on  thy  head, 
As  on  the  day  we  two  were  wed, 
Mine  eyes  scarce  knew  if  thou  wert  dead, 
But  my  shrunk  heart  knew,  Rosaline ! 

The  death-watch  ticked  behind  the  wall, 
The  blackness  rustled  like  a  pall, 
The  moaning  wind  did  rise  and  fall 
Among  the  bleak  pines,  Rosaline ! 
My  heart  beat  thickly  in  mine  ears : 
The  lids  may  shut  out  fleshly  fears, 
But  still  the  spirit  sees  and  hears, 
Its  eyes  are  lidless,  Rosaline ! 

A  wildness  rushing  suddenly, 

A  knowing  some  ill  shape  is  nigh, 

A  wish  for  death,  a  fear  to  die, 

Is  not  this  vengeance,  Rosaline  ? 

A  loneliness  that  is  not  lone, 

A  love  quite  withered  up  and  gone, 

A  strong  soul  ousted  from  its  throne, 

What  wouldst  thou  further,  Rosaline  ? 

'T  is  drear  such  moonless  nights  as  these, 
Strange  sounds  are  out  upon  the  breeze, 


ROSALINE 


51 


And  the  leaves  shiver  in  the  trees, 
And  then  thou  comest,  Rosaline ! 
I  seem  to  hear  the  mourners  go, 
With  long  black  garments  trailing  slow, 
And  plumes  anodding  to  and  fro, 
As  once  I  heard  them,  Rosaline ! 

Thy  shroud  is  all  of  snowy  white, 
And,  in  the  middle  of  the  night, 
Thou  standest  moveless  and  upright, 
Gazing  upon  me,  Rosaline  ! 
There  is  no  sorrow  in  thine  eyes, 
But  evermore  that  meek  surprise,  — 

0  God !  thy  gentle  spirit  tries 
To  deem  me  guiltless,  Rosaline ! 

Above  thy  grave  the  robin  sings, 

And  swarms  of  bright  and  happy  things 

Flit  all  about  with  sunlit  wings, . 

But  I  am  cheerless,  Rosaline ! 

The  violets  on  the  hillock  toss, 

The  gravestone  is  o'ergrown  with  moss ; 

For  nature  feels  not  any  loss, 

But  I  am  cheerless,  Rosaline ! 

1  did  not  know  when  thou  wast  dead ; 
A  blackbird  whistling  overhead 

Thrilled  through  my  brain  ;  I  would  have  fled, 

But  dared  not  leave  thee,  Rosaline ! 

The  sun  rolled  down,  and  very  soon, 

Like  a  great  fire,  the  awful  moon 

Rose,  stained  with  blood,  and  then  a  swoon 

Crept  chilly  o'er  me,  Rosaline ! 


EARLIER  POEMS 

The  stars  came  out ;  and,  one  by  one, 
Each  angel  from  his  silver  throne 
Looked  down  and  saw  what  I  had  done : 
I  dared  not  hide  me,  Rosaline ! 
I  crouched ;  I  feared  thy  corpse  would  cry 
Against  me  to  God's  silent  sky, 
I  thought  I  saw  the  blue  lips  try 
To  utter  something,  Rosaline ! 

I  waited  with  a  maddened  grin 

To  hear  that  voice  all  icy  thin 

Slide  forth  and  tell  my  deadly  sin 

To  hell  and  heaven,  Rosaline  ! 

But  no  voice  came,  and  then  it  seemed, 

That,  if  the  very  corpse  had  screamed, 

The  sound  like  sunshine  glad  had  streamed 

Through  that  dark  stillness^  Rosaline ! 

And  then,  amid  the  silent  night, 

I  screamed  with  horrible  delight, 

And  in  my  brain  an  awful  light 

Did  seem  to  crackle,  Rosaline  ! 

It  is  my  curse !  sweet  memories  fall 

From  me  like  snow,  and  only  all 

Of  that  one  night,  like  cold  worms,  crawl 

My  doomed  heart  over,  Rosaline ! 

Why  wilt  thou  haunt  me  with  thine  eyes, 
Wherein  such  blessed  memories, 
Such  pitying  forgiveness  lies, 
Than  hate  more  bitter,  Rosaline  ! 
Woe 's  me !    I  know  that  love  so  high 


A  REQUIEM 


As  thine,  true  soul,  could  never  die, 
And  with  mean  clay  in  churchyard  lie,  — 
Would  it  might  be  so,  Kosaline ! 


A  REQUIEM 

Ay,  pale  and  silent  maiden, 

Cold  as  thou  liest  there, 
Thine  was  the  sunniest  nature 

That  ever  drew  the  air ; 
The  wildest  and  most  wayward, 

And  yet  so  gently  kind, 
Thou  seemedst  but  to  body 

A  breath  of  summer  wind. 

Into  the  eternal  shadow 

That  girds  our  life  around, 
Into  the  infinite  silence 

Wherewith  Death's  shore  is  bound, 
Thou  hast  gone  forth,  beloved ! 

And  I  were  mean  to  weep, 
That  thou  hast  left  Life's  shallows, 

And  dost  possess  the  Deep. 

Thou  liest  low  and  silent, 

Thy  heart  is  cold  and  still, 
Thine  eyes  are  shut  forever, 

And  Death  hath  had  his  will ; 
He  loved  and  would  have  taken, 

I  loved  anc|/ would  have  kept, 
We  strove,  —  and  he  was  stronger, 

And  I  have  never  wept. 


EARLIER  POEMS 


Let  him  possess  thy  body, 

Thy  soul  is  still  with  me, 
More  sunny  and  more  gladsome 

Than  it  was  wont  to  be : 
Thy  body  was  a  fetter 

That  bound  me  to  the  flesh, 
Thank  God  that  it  is  broken, 

And  now  I  live  afresh ! 

Now  I  can  see  thee  clearly ; 

The  dusky  cloud  of  clay, 
That  hid  thy  starry  spirit, 

Is  rent  and  blown  away : 
To  earth  I  give  thy  body, 

Thy  spirit  to  the  sky, 
I  saw  its  bright  wings  growing, 

And  knew  that  thou  must  fly. 

Now  I  can  love  thee  truly, 

For  nothing  comes  between 
The  senses  and  the  spirit, 

The  seen  and  the  unseen ; 
Lifts  the  eternal  shadow, 

The  silence  bursts  apart, 
And  the  soul's  boundless  future 

Is  present  in  my  heart. 


A  PARABLE 

Worn  and  footsore  was  the.  Prophet, 
When  he  gained  the  holy  hill ; 


A  PARABLE 


44  God  has  left  the  earth,"  he  murmured, 
44  Here  his  presence  lingers  still. 

44  God  of  all  the  olden  prophets, 

Wilt  thou  speak  with  men  no  more  ? 
Have  I  not  as  truly  served  thee 
As  thy  chosen  ones  of  yore  ? 

44  Hear  me,  guider  of  my  fathers, 
Lo !  a  humble  heart  is  mine  ; 
By  thy  mercy  I  beseech  thee 
Grant  thy  servant  but  a  sign ! 99 

Bowing  then  his  head,  he  listened 
For  an  answer  to  his  prayer ; 

No  loud  burst  of  thunder  followed, 
Not  a  murmur  stirred  the  air : 

But  the  tuft  of  moss  before  him 
Opened  while  he  waited  yet, 

And,  from  out  the  rock's  hard  bosom, 
Sprang  a  tender  violet. 

44  God  !  I  thank  thee,"  said  the  Prophet ; 
44  Hard  of  heart  and  blind  was  I, 
Looking  to  the  holy  mountain 
For  the  gift  of  prophecy. 

44  Still  thou  speak^st  with  thy  children 
Freely  as  in  eld  sublime ; 
Humbleness,  and  love,  and  patience, 
Still  give  empire  over  time. 


EARLIER  POEMS 


6  Had  I  trusted  in  my  nature, 

And  had  faith  in  lowly  things, 
Thou  thyself  wouldst  then  have  sought  me, 
And  set  free  my  spirit's  wings0 

4  But  I  looked  for  signs  and  wonders, 

That  o'er  men  should  give  me  sway ; 
Thirsting  to  be  more  than  mortal, 
I  was  even  less  than  clay. 

'  Ere  I  entered  on  my  journey, 
As  I  girt  my  loins  to  start, 
Ran  to  me  my  little  daughter, 
The  beloved  of  my  heart ; 

i  In  her  hand  she  held  a  flower, 
Like  to  this  as  like  may  be, 
Which,  beside  my  very  threshold, 

She  had  plucked  and  brought  to  me." 


SONG 

O  moonlight  deep  and  tender, 
A  year  and  more  agone, 

Your  mist  of  golden  splendor 
Round  my  betrothal  shone  ! 

O  elm-leaves  dark  and  dewy, 

The  very  same  ye  seem, 
The  low  wind  trembles  through  ye, 

Ye  murmur  in  my  dream ! 


SONNETS  57 

O  river,  dim  with  distance, 

Flow  thus  forever  by, 
A  part  of  my  existence 

Within  your  heart  doth  lie ! 

O  stars,  ye  saw  our  meeting, 

Two  beings  and  one  soul, 
Two  hearts  so  madly  beating 

To  mingle  and  be  whole ! 

O  happy  night,  deliver 

Her  kisses  back  to  me, 
Or  keep  them  all,  and  give  her 

A  blissful  dream  of  me ! 


SONNETS 
i. 

TO  A.  C.  L. 

Through  suffering  and  sorrow  thou  hast  passed 

To  show  us  what  a  woman  true  may  be  : 

They  have  not  taken  sympathy  from  thee, 

Nor  made  thee  any  other  than  thou  wast, 

Save  as  some  tree,  which,  in  a  sudden  blast, 

Sheddeth  those  blossoms,  that  are  weakly  grown, 

Upon  the  air,  but  keepeth  every  one 

Whose  strength  gives  warrant  of  good  fruit  at  last: 

So  thou  hast  shed  some  blooms  of  gayety, 

But  never  one  of  steadfast  cheerfulness ; 

Nor  hath  thy  knowledge  of  adversity 

Robbed  thee  of  any  faith  in  happiness, 


58  EARLIER  POEMS 

But  rather  cleared  thine  inner  eyes  to  see 
How  many  simple  ways  there  are  to  bless. 

II. 

What  were  I,  Love,  if  I  were  stripped  of  thee, 
If  thine  eyes  shut  me  out  whereby  I  live, 
Thou,  who  unto  my  calmer  soul  dost  give 
Knowledge,  and  Truth,  and  holy  Mystery, 
Wherein  Truth  mainly  lies  for  those  who  see 
Beyond  the  earthly  and  the  fugitive, 
Who  in  the  grandeur  of  the  soul  believe, 
And  only  in  the  Infinite  are  free  ? 
Without  thee  I  were  naked,  bleak,  and  bare 
As  yon  dead  cedar  on  the  sea-cliff's  brow ; 
And  Nature's  teachings,  which  come  to  me  now, 
Common  and  beautiful  as  light  and  air, 
Would  be  as  fruitless  as  a  stream  which  still 
Slips  through  the  wheel  of  some  old  ruined  mill. 

III. 

I  WOULD  not  have  this  perfect  love  of  ours 

Grow  from  a  single  root,  a  single  stem, 

Bearing  no  goodly  fruit,  but  only  flowers 

That  idly  hide  life's  iron  diadem  : 

It  should  grow  alway  like  that  Eastern  tree 

Whose  limbs  take  root  and  spread  forth  constantly ; 

That  love  for  one,  from  which  there  doth  not  spring 

Wide  love  for  all,  is  but  a  worthless  thing. 

Not  in  another  world,  as  poets  prate, 

Dwell  we  apart  above  the  tide  of  things, 


SONNETS 


59 


High  floating  o'er  earth's  clouds  on  faery  wings ; 

But  our  pure  love  doth  ever  elevate 

Into  a  holy  bond  of  brotherhood 

All  earthly  things,  making  them  pure  and  good. 

IV. 

"For  this  true  nobleness  I  seek  in  vain, 

In  woman  and  in  man  I  find  it  not ; 

I  almost  weary  of  my  earthly  lot, 

My  life-springs  are  dried  up  with  burning  pain." 

Thou  find'st  it  not  ?    I  pray  thee  look  again, 

Look  inward  through  the  depths  of  thine  own  soul. 

How  is  it  with  thee  ?    Art  thou  sound  and  whole  ? 

Doth  narrow  search  show  thee  no  earthly  stain  ? 

Be  noble  !  and  the  nobleness  that  lies 

In  other  men,  sleeping,  but  never  dead, 

Will  rise  in  majesty  to  meet  thine  own ; 

Then  wilt  thou  see  it  gleam  in  many  eyes, 

Then  will  pure  light  around  thy  path  be  shed, 

And  thou  wilt  nevermore  be  sad  and  lone. 

V. 

TO  THE  SPIRIT  OF  KEATS. 

Great  soul,  thou  sittest  with  me  in  my  room, 

Uplifting  me  with  thy  vast,  quiet  eyes, 

On  whose  full  orbs,  with  kindly  lustre,  lies 

The  twilight  warmth  of  ruddy  ember-gloom : 

Thy  clear,  strong  tones  will  oft  bring  sudden  bloom 

Of  hope  secure,  to  him  who  lonely  cries, 


60 


EARLIER  POEMS 


Wrestling  with  the  young  poet's  agonies, 
Neglect  and  scorn,  which  seem  a  certain  doom : 
Yes!  the  few  words  which,  like  great  thunder- 
drops, 

Thy  large  heart  down  to  earth  shook  doubtfully, 
Thrilled  by  the  inward  lightning  of  its  might, 
Serene  and  pure,  like  gushing  joy  of  light, 
Shall  track  the  eternal  chords  of  Destiny, 
After  the  moon-led  pulse  of  ocean  stops. 

VI. 

Great  Truths  are  portions  of  the  soul  of  man ; 

Great  souls  are  portions  of  Eternity ; 

Each  drop  of  blood  that  e'er  through  true  heart  ran 

With  lofty  message,  ran  for  thee  and  me ; 

For  God's  law,  since  the  starry  song  began, 

Hath  been,  and  still  forevermore  must  be, 

That  every  deed  which  shall  outlast  Time's  span 

Must  spur  the  soul  to  be  erect  and  free ; 

Slave  is  no  word  of  deathless  lineage  sprung ; 

Too  many  noble  souls  have  thought  and  died, 

Too  many  mighty  poets  lived  and  sung, 

And  our  good  Saxon,  from  lips  purified 

With  martyr-fire,  throughout  the  world  hath  rung 

Too  long  to  have  God's  holy  cause  denied. 

VII. 

I  ASK  not  for  those  thoughts,  that  sudden  leap 
From  being's  sea,  like  the  isle-seeming  Kraken, 
With  whose  great  rise  the  ocean  all  is  shaken 


SONNETS 


61 


And  a  heart-tremble  quivers  through  the  deep ; 
Give  me  that  growth  which  some  perchance  deem 
sleep, 

Wherewith  the  steadfast  coral-stems  uprise, 
Which,  by  the  toil  of  gathering  energies, 
Their  upward  way  into  clear  sunshine  keep, 
Until,  by  Heaven's  sweetest  influences, 
Slowly  and  slowly  spreads  a  speck  of  green 
Into  a  pleasant  island  in  the  seas, 
Where,  mid  tall  palms,  the  cane-roofed  home  is 
seen, 

And  wearied  men  shall  sit  at  sunset's  hour, 
Hearing  the  leaves  and  loving  God's  dear  power. 

VIII. 

TO  M.  W.,  ON  HER  BIRTHDAY. 

Maiden,  when  such  a  soul  as  thine  is  born, 
The  morning-stars  their  ancient  music  make, 
And,  joyful,  once  again  their  song  awake, 
Long  silent  now  with  melancholy  scorn  ; 
And  thou,  not  mindless  of  so  blest  a  morn, 
By  no  least  deed  its  harmony  shalt  break, 
But  shalt  to  that  high  chime  thy  footsteps  take, 
Through  life's  most  darksoirie  passes  unforlorn  ; 
Therefore  from  thy  pure  faith  thou  shalt  not  fall. 
Therefore  shalt  thou  be  ever  fair  and  free, 
And  in  thine  every  motion  musical 
As  summer  air,  majestic  as  the  sea, 
A  mystery  to  those  who  creep  and  crawl 
Through  Time,  and  part  it  from  Eternity. 


62 


EARLIER  POEMS 


IX. 

My  Love,  I  have  no  fear  that  thou  shouldst  die ; 
Albeit  I  ask  no  fairer  life  than  this, 
Whose  numbering-clock  is  still  thy  gentle  kiss, 
While  Time  and  Peace  with  hands  enlocked  fly; 
Yet  care  I  not  where  in  Eternity 
We  live  and  love,  well  knowing  that  there  is 
No  backward  step  for  those  who  feel  the  bliss 
Of  Faith  as  their  most  lofty  yearnings  high : 
Love  hath  so  purified  my  being's  core, 
Meseems  I  scarcely  should  be  startled,  even, 
To  find,  some  morn,  that  thou  hadst  gone  before ; 
Since,  with  thy  love,  this  knowledge  too  was  given, 
Which  each  calm  day  doth  strengthen  more  and 
more, 

That  they  who  love  are  but  one  step  from  Heaven, 
x. 

I  cannot  think  that  thou  shouldst  pass  away, 

Whose  life  to  mine  is  an  eternal  law, 

A  piece  of  nature  that  can  have  no  flaw, 

A  new  and  certain  sunrise  every  day ; 

But,  if  thou  art  to  be  another  ray 

About  the  Sun  of  Life,  and  art  to  live 

Free  from  what  part  of  thee  was  fugitive, 

The  debt  of  Love  I  will  more  fully  pay, 

Not  downcast  with  the  thought  of  thee  so  high, 

But  rather  raised  to  be  a  nobler  man, 

And  more  divine  in  my  humanity, 

As  knowing  that  the  waiting  eyes  which  scan 


SONNETS 


63 


My  life  are  lighted  by  a  purer  being, 

And  ask  high,  calm-browed  deeds,  with  it  agreeing. 

XI. 

There  never  yet  was  flower  fair  in  vain, 
Let  classic  poets  rhyme  it  as  they  will ; 
The  seasons  toil  that  it  may  blow  again, 
And  summer's  heart  doth  feel  its  every  ill ; 
Nor  is  a  true  soul  ever  born  for  naught ; 
Wherever  any  such  hath  lived  and  died, 
There   hath  been    something  for  true  freedom 
wrought, 

Some  bulwark  levelled  on  the  evil  side  : 
Toil  on,  then,  Greatness  !  thou  art  in  the  right, 
However  narrow  souls  may  call  thee  wrong  ; 
Be  as  thou  wouldst  be  in  thine  own  clear  sight, 
And  so  thou  shalt  be  in  the  world's  erelong ; 
For  worldlings  cannot,  struggle  as  they  may, 
From  man's  great  soul  one  great  thought  hide 
away. 

XII. 

SUB  PONDERE  CRESCIT. 

The  hope  of  Truth  grows  stronger,  day  by  day  ; 
I  hear  the  soul  of  Man  around  me  waking, 
Like  a  great  sea,  its  frozen  fetters  breaking, 
And  flinging  up  to  heaven  its  sunlit  spray, 
Tossing  huge  continents  in  scornful  play, 
And  crushing  them,  with  din  of  grinding  thunder, 


64 


EARLIER  POEMS 


That  makes  old  emptinesses  stare  in  wonder ; 
The  memory  of  a  glory  passed  away 
Lingers  in  every  heart,  as,  in  the  shell, 
Resounds  the  bygone  freedom  of  the  sea, 
And  every  hour  new  signs  of  promise  tell, 
That  the  great  soul  shall  once  again  be  free, 
For  high,  and  yet  more  high,  the  murmurs  swell 
Of  inward  strife  for  truth  and  liberty. 

XIII. 

Beloved,  in  the  noisy  city  here, 

The  thought  of  thee  can  make  all  turmoil  cease ; 

Around  my  spirit,  folds  thy  spirit  clear 

Its  still,  soft  arms,  and  circles  it  with  peace  ; 

There  is  no  room  for  any  doubt  or  fear 

In  souls  so  overfilled  with  love's  increase, 

There  is  no  memory  of  the  bygone  year 

But  growth  in  heart's  and  spirit's  perfect  ease : 

How  hath  our  love,  half  nebulous  at  first, 

Rounded  itself  into  a  full-orbed  sun  ! 

How  have  our  lives  and  wills  (as  haply  erst 

They  were,  ere  this  forgetfulness  begun) 

Through  all  their  earthly  distances  outburst, 

And  melted,  like  two  rays  of  light  in  one ! 

XIV. 

ON  READING  WORDSWORTH'S  SONNETS  IN  DEFENCE 
OF  CAPITAL  PUNISHMENT. 

As  the  broad  ocean  endlessly  upheaveth, 
With  the  majestic  beating  of  his  heart, 


SONNETS 


65 


The  mighty  tides,  whereof  its  rightful  part 
Each  sea-wide  bay  and  little  weed  receiveth, 
So,  through  his  soul  who  earnestly  believeth, 
Life  from  the  universal  Heart  doth  fljw, 
Whereby  some  conquest  of  the  eternal  Woe, 
By  instinct  of  God's  nature,  he  achieveth : 
A  fuller  pulse  of  this  all-powerful  beauty 
Into  the  poet's  gulf-like  heart  doth  tide, 
And  he  more  keenly  feels  the  glorious  duty 
Of  serving  Truth,  despised  and  crucified,  — 
Happy,  unknowing  sect  or  creed,  to  rest, 
And  feel  God  flow  forever  through  his  breast. 


XV. 

THE  SAME  CONTINUED. 

Once  hardly  in  a  cycle  blossometh 
A  flower-like  soul  ripe  with  the  seeds  of  song, 
A  spirit  foreordained  to  cope  with  wrong, 
Whose  divine  thoughts  are  natural  as  breath, 
Who  the  old  Darkness  thickly  scattereth 
With  starry  words,  that  shoot  prevailing  light 
Into  the  deeps,  and  wither,  with  the  blight 
Of  serene  Truth,  the  coward  heart  of  Death  : 
Woe,  if  such  spirit  thwart  its  errand  high, 
And  mock  with  lies  the  longing  soul  of  man  ! 
Yet  one  age  longer  must  true  Culture  lie, 
Soothing  her  bitter  fetters  as  she  can, 
Until  new  messages  of  love  outstart 
At  the  next  beating  of  the  infinite  Heart. 


66 


EARLIER  POEMS 


XVI. 

THE  SAME  CONTINUED. 

The  love  of  all  things  springs  from  love  of  one ; 
Wider  the  soul's  horizon  hourly  grows, 
And  over  it  with  fuller  glory  flows 
The  sky-like  spirit  of  God  ;  a  hope  begun 
In  doubt  and  darkness  'neath  a  fairer  sun 
Cometh  to  fruitage,  if  it  be  of  Truth  ; 
And  to  the  law  of  meekness,  faith,  and  ruth, 
By  inward  sympathy,  shall  all  be  won  : 
This  thou  shouldst  know,  who,  from  the  painted 
feature 

Of  shifting  Fashion,  eouldst  thy  brethren  turn 
Unto  the  love  of  ever-youthful  Nature, 
And  of  a  beauty  fadeless  and  eterne ; 
And  always 't  is  the  saddest  sight  to  see 
An  old  man  faithless  in  Humanity. 


XVII. 

the  same  continued. 

A  poet  cannot  strive  for  despotism ; 
His  harp  falls  shattered ;  for  it  still  must  be 
The  instinct  of  great  spirits  to  be  free, 
And  the  sworn  foes  of  cunning  barbarism : 
He  who  has  deepest  searched  the  wide  abysm 
Of  that  life-giving  Soul  which  men  call  fate, 
Knows  that  to  put  more  faith  in  lies  and  hate 
Than  truth  and  love  is  the  true  atheism  : 


SONNETS  67 

Upward  the  soul  forever  turns  her  eyes : 

The  next  hour  always  shames  the  hour  before ; 

One  beauty,  at  its  highest,  prophesies 

That  by  whose  side  it  shall  seem  mean  and  poor  ; 

No  Godlike  thing  knows  aught  of  less  and  less, 

But  widens  to  the  boundless  Perfectness. 

XVIII. 

THE  SAME  CONTINUED. 

Therefore  think  not  the  Past  is  wise  al6ne, 

For  Yesterday  knows  nothing  of  the  Best, 

And  thou  shalt  love  it  only  as  the  nest 

Whence  glory-winged  things  to  Heaven  have  flown : 

To  the  great  Soul  only  are  all  things  known ; 

Present  and  future  are  to  her  as  past, 

While  she  in  glorious  madness  doth  forecast 

That  perfect  bud,  which  seems  a  flower  full-blown 

To  each  new  Prophet,  and  yet  always  opes 

Fuller  and  fuller  with  each  day  and  hour, 

Heartening  the  soul  with  odor  of  fresh  hopes, 

And  longings  high,  and  gushings  of  wide  power, 

Yet  never  is  or  shall  be  fully  blown 

Save  in  the  forethought  of  the  Eternal  One. 

XIX. 

THE  SAME  CONCLUDED. 

Far  'yoncl  this  narrow  parapet  of  Time, 
With  eyes  uplift,  the  poet's  soul  should  look 


68 


EARLIER  POEMS 


Into  the  Endless  Promise,  nor  should  brook 
One  prying  doubt  to  shake  his  faith  sublime  ; 
To  him  the  earth  is  ever  in  her  prime 
And  dewiness  of  morning ;  he  can  see 
Good  lying  hid,  from  all  eternity, 
Within  the  teeming  womb  of  sin  and  crime ; 
His  soul  should  not  be  cramped  by  any  bar, 
His  nobleness  should  be  so  Godlike  high, 
That  his  least  deed  is  perfect  as  a  star, 
His  common  look  majestic  as  the  sky, 
And  all  o'erflooded  with  a  light  from  far, 
Undimmeti  by  clouds  of  weak  mortality. 


XX. 

TO  M.  O.  S. 

Mary,  since  first  I  knew  thee,  to  this  hour, 

My  love  hath  deepened,  with  my  wiser  sense 

Of  what  in  Woman  is  to  reverence ; 

Thy  clear  heart,  fresh  as  e'er  was  forest-flower, 

Still  opens  more  to  me  its  beauteous  dower ;  — 

But  let  praise  hush,  —  Love  asks  no  evidence 

To  prove  itself  well -placed  ;  we  know  not  whence 

It  gleans  the  straws  that  thatch  its  humble  bower : 

We  can  but  say  we  found  it  in  the  heart, 

Spring  of  all  sweetest  thoughts,  arch  foe  of  blame, 

Sower  of  flowers  in  the  dusty  mart, 

Pure  vestal  of  the  poet's  holy  flame,  — 

This  is  enou^n,  and  we  have  done  our  part 

If  we  but  keep  it  spotless  as  it  came. 


SONNETS 


69 


XXI. 

Our  love  is  not  a  fading,  earthly  flower : 

Its  winged  seed  dropped  down  from  Paradise, 

And,  nursed  by  day  and  night,  by  sun  and  shower, 

Doth  momently  to  fresher  beauty  rise : 

To  us  the  leafless  autumn  is  not  bare, 

Nor  winter's  rattling  boughs  lack  lusty  green. 

Our  summer  hearts  make  summer's  fulness,  where 

No  leaf,  or  bud,  or  blossom  may  be  seen : 

For  nature's  life  in  love's  deep  life  doth  lie, 

Love,  —  whose  f orgetf ulness  is  beauty's  death, 

Whose  mystic  key  these  cells  of  Thou  and  I 

Into  the  infinite  freedom  openeth, 

And  makes  the  body's  dark  and  narrow  grate 

The  wide-flung  leaves  of  Heaven's  own  palace-gate. 

XXII. 

IN  ABSENCE. 

These  rugged,  wintry  days  I  scarce  could  bear, 
Did  I  not  know,  that,  in  the  early  spring, 
When  wild  March  winds  upon  their  errands  sing, 
Thou  wouldst  return,  bursting  on  this  still  air, 
Like  those  same  winds,  when,  startled  from  their 
lair, 

They  hunt  up  violets,  and  free  swift  brooks 
From  icy  cares,  even  as  thy  clear  looks 
Bid  my  heart  bloom,  and  sing,  and  break  all  care : 
When  drops  with  welcome  rain  the  April  day, 
My  flowers  shall  find  their  April  in  thine  eyes, 


TO 


EARLIER  POEMS 


Save  there  the  rain  in  dreamy  clouds  doth  stay, 
As  loath  to  fall  out  of  those  happy  skies ; 
Yet  sure,  my  love,  thou  art  most  like  to  May, 
That  comes  with  steady  sun  when  April  dies. 

XXIII. 
WENDELL  PHILLIPS. 

He  stood  upon  the  world's  broad  threshold ;  wide 
The  din  of  battle  and  of  slaughter  rose ; 
He  saw  God  stand  upon  the  weaker  side, 
That  sank  in  seeming  loss  before  its  foes : 
Many  there  were  who  made  great  haste  and  sold 
Unto  the  cunning  enemy  their  swords, 
He  scorned  their  gifts  of  fame,  and  power,  and 
gold, 

And,  underneath  their  soft  and  flowery  words, 
Heard  the  cold  serpent  hiss  ;  therefore  he  went 
And  humbly  joined  him  to  the  weaker  part, 
Fanatic  named,  and  fool,  yet  well  content 
So  he  could  be  the  nearer  to  God's  heart, 
And  feel  its  solemn  pulses  sending  blood 
Through  all  the  widespread  veins  of  endless  good. 

XXIV. 
THE  STREET. 

They  pass  me  by  like  shadows,  crowds  on  crowds, 
Dim  ghosts  of  men,  that  hover  to  and  fro, 
Hugging  their  bodies  round  them  like  thin  shrouds 


SONNETS 


71 


Wherein  their  souls  were  buried  long  ago  : 

They  trampled  on  their  youth,  and  faith,  and  love, 

They  cast  their  hope  of  human-kind  away, 

With  Heaven's  clear  messages  they  madly  strove, 

And  conquered,  —  and  their  spirits  turned  to  clay: 

Lo  !  how  they  wander  round  the  world,  their  grave, 

Whose  ever-gaping  maw  by  such  is  fed, 

Gibbering  at  living  men,  and  idly  rave, 

"  We,  only,  truly  live,  but  ye  are  dead." 

Alas !  poor  fools,  the  anointed  eye  may  trace 

A  dead  soul's  epitaph  in  every  face ! 

XXV. 

I  grieve  not  that  ripe  Knowledge  takes  away 
The  charm  that  Nature  to  my  childhood  wore, 
For,  with  that  insight,  cometh,  day  by  day, 
A  greater  bliss  than  wonder  was  before ; 
The  real  doth  not  clip  the  poet's  wings,  — ■ 
To  win  the  secret  of  a  weed's  plain  heart 
Reveals  some  clue  to  spiritual  things, 
And  stumbling  guess  becomes  firm-footed  art : 
Flowers  are  not,  flowers  unto  the  poet's  eyes, 
Their  beauty  thrills  him  by  an  inward  sense ; 
He  knows  that  outward  seemings  are  but  lies, 
Or,  at  the  most,  but  earthly  shadows,  whence 
The  soul  that  looks  within  for  truth  may  guess 
The  presence  of  some  wondrous  heavenliness. 


72  EARLIER  POEMS 

XXVI. 
TO  J.  R.  GIDDINGS. 

GlDDiNGS,  far  rougher  names  than  thine  have 
grown 

Smoother  than  honey  on  the  lips  of  men  ; 

And  thou  shalt  aye  be  honorably  known, 

As  one  who  bravely  used  his  tongue  and  pen, 

As  best  befits  a  freeman,  —  even  for  those 

To  whom  our  Law's  unblushing  front  denies 

A  right  to  plead  against  the  lifelong  woes 

Which  are  the  Negro's  glimpse  of  Freedom's  skies : 

Fear  nothing,  and  hope  all  things,  as  the  Right 

Alone  may  do  securely  ;  every  hour 

The  thrones  of  Ignorance  and  ancient  Night 

Lose  somewhat  of  their  long-usurped  power, 

And  Freedom's  lightest  word  can  make  them  shiver 

With  a  base  dread  that  clings  to  them  forever. 

XXVII. 

I  THOUGHT  our  love  at  full,  but  I  did  err ; 
Joy's  wreath  drooped  o'er  mine  eyes;  I  could  not 
see 

That  sorrow  in  our  happy  world  must  be 
Love's  deepest  spokesman  and  interpreter : 
But,  as  a  mother  feels  her  child  first  stir 
Under  her  heart,  so  felt  I  instantly 
Deep  in  my  soul  another  bond  to  thee 
Thrill  with  that  life  we  saw  depart  from  her ; 
O  mother  of  our  angel  child !  twice  dear ! 


VENVOI 


73 


Death  knits  as  well  as  parts,  and  still,  I  wis, 
Her  tender  radiance  shall  infold  us  here, 
Even  as  the  light,  borne  up  by  inward  bliss, 
Threads  the  void  glooms  of-  space  without  a  fear, 
To  print  on  farthest  stars  her  pitying  kiss. 


I/ENVOI 

Whether  my  heart  hath  wiser  grown  or  not, 

In  these  three  years,  since  I  to  thee  inscribed, 

Mine  own  betrothed,  the  firstlings  of  my  muse,  — • 

Poor  windfalls  of  unripe  experience, 

Young  buds  plucked  hastily  by  childish  hands 

Not  patient  to  await  more  full-blown  flowers,  — 

At  least  it  hath  seen  more  of  life  and  men, 

And  pondered  more,  and  grown  a  shade  more  sad ; 

Yet  with  no  loss  of  hope  or  settled  trust 

In  the  benignness  of  that  Providence 

Which  shapes  from  out  our  elements  awry 

The  grace  and  order  that  we  wonder  at, 

The  mystic  harmony  of  right  and  wrong, 

Both  working  out  His  wisdom  and  our  good : 

A  trust,  Beloved,  chiefly  learned  of  thee, 

Who  hast  that  gift  of  patient  tenderness, 

The  instinctive  wisdom  of  a  woman's  heart. 

They  tell  us  that  our  land  was  made  for  song, 
With  its  huge  rivers  and  sky-piercing  peaks, 
Its  sealike  lakes  and  mighty  cataracts, 
Its  forests  vast  and  hoar,  and  prairies  wide, 
And  mounds  that  tell  of  wondrous  tribes  extinct. 


74 


EARLIER  POEMS 


But  Poesy  springs  not  from  rocks  and  woods ; 
Her  womb  and  cradle  are  the  human  heart, 
And  she  can  find  a  nobler  theme  for  song 
In  the  most  loathsome  man  that  blasts  the  sight 
Than  in  the  broad  expanse  of  sea  and  shore 
Between  the  frozen  deserts  of  the  poles. 
All  nations  have  their  message  from  on  high, 
Each  the  messiah  of  some  central  thought, 
For  the  fulfilment  and  delight  of  Man  : 
One  has  to  teach  that  labor  is  divine ; 
Another  Freedom  ;  and  another  Mind : 
And  all,  that  God  is  open-eyed  and  just, 
The  happy  centre  and  calm  heart  of  all. 

Are,  then,  our  woods,  our  mountains,  and  our 
streams, 

Needful  to  teach  our  poets  how  to  sing  ? 

O  maiden  rare,  far  other  thoughts  were  ours, 

When  we  have  sat  by  ocean's  foaming  marge, 

And  watched  the  waves  leap  roaring  on  the  rocks, 

Than  young  Leander  and  his  Hero  had, 

Gazing  from  Sestos  to  the  other  shore. 

The  moon  looks  down  and  ocean  worships  her, 

Stars  rise  and  set,  and  seasons  come  and  go 

Even  as  they  did  in  Homer's  elder  time, 

But  we  behold  them  not  with  Grecian  eyes : 

Then  they  were  types  of  beauty  and  of  strength, 

But  now  of  freedom,  unconfined  and  pure, 

Subject  alone  to  Order's  higher  law. 

What  cares  the  Russian  serf  or  Southern  slave 

Though  we  should  speak  as  man  spake  never  yet 

Of  gleaming  Hudson's  broad  magnificence, 


V ENVOI 


75 


Or  green  Niagara's  never-ending  roar? 
Our  country  hath  a  gospel  of  her  own 
To  preach  and  practise  before  all  the  world,  — 
The  freedom  and  divinity  of  man, 
The  glorious  claims  of  human  brotherhood,  — 
Which  to  pay  nobly,  as  a  freeman  should, 
Gains  the  sole  wealth  that  will  not  fly  away,  — 
And  the  soul's  fealty  to  none  but  God. 
These  are  realities,  which  make  the  shows 
Of  outward  Nature,  be  they  ne'er  so  grand, 
Seem  small,  and  worthless,  and  contemptible. 
These  are  the  mountain -summits  for  our  bards, 
Which  stretch  far  upward  into  heaven  itself, 
And  give  such  widespread  and  exulting  view 
Of  hope,  and  faith,  and  onward  destiny, 
That  shrunk  Parnassus  to  a  molehill  dwindles. 
Our  new  Atlantis,  like  a  morning-star, 
Silvers  the  mirk  face  of  slow-yielding  Night,  — 
The  herald  of    fuller  truth  than  yet 
.Hath  gleamed  upon  the  upraised  face  of  Man 
Since  the  earth  glittered  in  her  stainless  prime,  — 
Of  a  more  glorious  sunrise  than  of  old 
Drew  wondrous  melodies  from  Memnon  huge, 
Yea,  draws  them  still,  though  now  he  sit  waist- 
deep 

In  the  ingulfing  flood  of  whirling  sand, 
And  look  across  the  wastes  of  endless  gray, 
Sole  wreck,  where  once  his  hundred-gated  Thebes 
Pained  with   her   mighty  hum   the   calm,  blue 
heaven : 

Shall  the  dull  stone  pay  grateful  orisons, 
And  we  till  noonday  bar  the  splendor  out, 


76 


EARLIER  POEMS 


Lest  it  reproach  and  chide  our  sluggard  hearts, 
Warm-nestled  in  the  down  of  Prejudice, 
And  be  content,  though  clad  with  angel-wings, 
Close-clipped,  to  hop  about  from  perch  to  perch, 
In  paltry  cages  of  dead  men's  dead  thoughts  ? 
Oh,  rather,  like  the  skylark,  soar  and  sing, 
And  let  our  gushing  songs  befit  the  dawn 
And  sunrise,  and  the  yet  unshaken  dew 
Brimming  the  chalice  of  each  full-blown  hope, 
Whose  blithe  front  turns  to  greet  the  growing  day ! 
Never  had  poets  such  high  call  before, 
Never  can  poets  hope  for  higher  one, 
And,  if  they  be  but  faithful  to  their  trust, 
Earth  will  remember  them  with  love  and  joy, 
And  oh,  far  better,  God  will  not  forget. 
For  he  who  settles  Freedom's  principles 
Writes  the  death-warrant  of  all  tyranny ; 
Who  speaks  the  truth  stabs  Falsehood  to  the  heart, 
And  his  mere  word  makes  despots  tremble  more 
Than  ever  Brutus  with  his  dagger  could. 
W ait  for  no  hints  from  waterfalls  or  woods, 
Nor  dream  that  tales  of  red  men,  brute  and  fierce, 
Repay  the  finding  of  this  Western  World, 
Or  needed  half  the  globe  to  give  them  birth : 
Spirit  supreme  of  Freedom  !  not  for  this 
Did  great  Columbus  tame  his  eagle  soul 
To  jostle  with  the  daws  that  perch  in  courts ; 
Not  for  this,  friendless,  on  an  unknown  sea, 
Coping  with  mad  waves  and  more  mutinous  spirits, 
Battled  he  with  the  dreadful  ache  at  heart 
Which  tempts,  with  devilish  subtleties  of  doubt, 
The  hermit  of  that  loneliest  solitude, 


V  EN  VOI 


77 


The  silent  desert  of  a  great  New  Thought ; 
Though  loud  Niagara  were  to-day  struck  dumb, 
Yet  would  this  cataract  of  boiling  life 
Rush  plunging  on  and  on  to  endless  deeps, 
And  utter  thunder  till  the  world  shall  cease,  — - 
A  thunder  worthy  of  the  poet's  song, 
And  which  alone  can  fill  it  with  true  life. 
The  high  evangel  to  our  country  granted 
Could  make  apostles,  yea,  with  tongues  of  fire, 
Of  hearts  half-darkened  back  again  to  clay  ! 
'T  is  the  soul  only  that  is  national, 
And  he  who  pays  true  loyalty  to  that 
Alone  can  claim  the  wreath  of  patriotism. 

Beloved  !  if  I  wander  far  and  oft 
From  that  which  I  believe,  and  feel,  and  know, 
Thou  wilt  forgive,  not  with  a  sorrowing  heart, 
But  with  a  strengthened  hope  of  better  things  ; 
Knowing  that  I,  though  often  blind  and  false 
To  those  I  love,  and  oh,  more  false  than  all 
Unto  myself,  have  been  most  true  to  thee, 
And  that  whos#o  in  one  thing  hath  been  true 
Can  be  as  true  in  all.    Therefore  thy  hope 
May  yet  not  prove  unfruitful,  and  thy  love 
Meet,  day  by  day,  with  less  unworthy  thanks, 
Whether,  as  now,  we  journey  hand  in  hand, 
Or,  parted  in  the  body,  yet  are  one 
In  spirit  and  the  love  of  holy  things. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


A  LEGEND  OF  BRITTANY 
PART  FIRST 
I. 

Fair  as  a  summer  dream  was  Margaret, 
Such  dream  as  in  a  poet's  soul  might  start, 

Musing  of  old  loves  while  the  moon  doth  set : 
Her  hair  was  not  more  sunny  than  her  heart, 

Though  like  a  natural  golden  coronet 

It  circled  her  dear  head  with  careless  art, 

Mocking  the  sunshine,  that  would  fain  have  lent 

To  its  frank  grace  a  richer  ornament. 

II. 

His  loved  one's  eyes  could  poet  ever  speak, 
So  kind,  so  dewy,  and  so  deep  .were  hers,  — 

But,  while  he  strives,  the  choicest  phrase,  too  weak, 
Their  glad  reflection  in  his  spirit  blurs  ; 

As  one  may  see  a  dream  dissolve  and  break 
Out  of  his  grasp  when  he  to  tell  it  stirs, 

Like  that  sad  Dryad  doomed  no  more  to  bless 

The  mortal  who  revealed  her  loveliness. 

III. 

She  dwelt  forever  in  a  region  bright, 
Peopled  with  living  fancies  of  her  own, 


A  LEGEND  OF  BRITTANY 


79 


Where  naught  could  come  but  visions  of  delight, 
Far,  far  aloof  from  earth's  eternal  moan : 

A  summer  cloud  thrilled  through  with  rosy  light, 
Floating  beneath  the  blue  sky  all  alone, 

Her  spirit  wandered  by  itself,  and  won 

A  golden  edge  from  some  unsetting  sun. 

IV. 

The  heart  grows  richer  that  its  lot  is  poor, 
God  blesses  want  with  larger  sympathies, 

Love  enters  gladliest  at  the  humble  door, 
And  makes  the  cot  a  palace  with  his  eyes ; 

So  Margaret's  heart  a  softer  beauty  wore, 
And  grew  in  gentleness  and  patience  wise, 

For  she  was  but  a  simple  herdsman's  child, 

A  lily  chance-sown  in  the  rugged  wild. 

v. 

There  was  no  beauty  of  the  wood  or  field 
But  she  its  fragrant  bosom-secret  knew, 

Nor  any  but  to  her  would  freely  yield 

Some  grace  that  in  her  soul  took  root  and  grew : 

Nature  to  her  shone  as  but  now  revealed, 
All  rosy-fresh  with  innocent  morning  dew, 

And  looked  into  her  heart  with  dim,  sweet  eyes 

That  left  it  full  of  sylvan  memories. 

VI. 

Oh,  what  a  face  was  hers  to  brighten  light, 
And  give  back  sunshine  with  an  added  glow, 

To  wile  each  moment  with  a  fresh  delight, 

And  part  of  memory's  best  contentment  grow  ! 


80  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


Oh,  how  her  voice,  as  with  an  inmate's  right, 
Into  the  strangest  heart  wrould  welcome  go, 
And  make  it  sweet,  and  ready  to  become 
Of  white  and  gracious  thoughts  the  chosen  home ! 

VII. 

None  looked  upon  her  but  he  straightway  thought 
Of  all  the  greenest  depths  of  country  cheer, 

And  into  each  one's  heart  was  freshly  brought 
What  was  to  him  the  sweetest  time  of  year, 

So  was  her  every  look  and  motion  fraught 
With  out-of-door  delights  and  forest  lere  ; 

Not  the  first  violet  on  a  woodland  lea 

Seemed  a  more  visible  gift  of  Spring  than  she. 

VIII. 

Ts  love  learned  only  out  of  poets'  books  ? 

Is  there  not  somewhat  in  the  dropping  flood, 
And  in  the  nunneries  of  silent  nooks, 

And  in  the  murmured  longing  of  the  wood, 
That  could  make  Margaret  dream  of  love-lorn  looks, 

And  stir  a  thrilling  mystery  in  her  blood 
More  trembly  secret  than  Aurora's  tear 
Shed  in  the  bosom  of  an  eglatere  ? 

IX. 

Full  many  a  sweet  forewarning  hath  the  mind, 
Full  many  a  whispering  of  vague  desire, 

Ere  comes  the  nature  destined  to  unbind 
Its  virgin  zone,  and  all  its  deeps  inspire,  — 

Low  stirrings  in  the  leaves,  before  the  wind 
Wake  all  the  green  strings  of  the  forest  lyre, 


A  LEGEND  OF  BRITTANY 


81 


Faint  heatings  in  the  calyx,  ere  the  rose 
Its  warm  voluptuous  breast  doth  all  unclose. 

x. 

Long  in  its  dim  recesses  pines  the  spirit, 
Wildered  and  dark,  despairingly  alone  ; 

Though  many  a  shape  of  beauty  wander  near  it, 
And  many  a  wild  and  half -remembered  tone 

Tremble  from  the  divine  abyss  to  cheer  it, 
Yet  still  it  knows  that  there  is  only  one 

Before  whom  it  canjkneel  and  tribute  bring, 

At  once  a  happy  vassal  and  a  king. 

i 

XI. 

To  feel  a  want,  yet  scarce  know  what  it  is, 
To  seek  one  nature  that  is  always  new, 

Whose  glance  is  warmer  than  another's  kiss, 
Whom  we  can  bare  our  inmost  beauty  to, 

Nor  feel  deserted  afterwards,  —  for  this 

But  with  our  destined  co-mate  we  can  do,  — 

Such  longing  instinct  fills  the  mighty  scope 

Of  the  young  soul  with  one  mysterious  hope. 

XII. 

So  Margaret's  heart  grew  brimming  with  the  lore 
Of  love's  enticing  secrets  ;  and  although 

She  had  found  none  to  cast  it  down  before, 
Yet  oft  to  Fancy's  chapel  she  would  go 

To  pay  her  vows,  and  count  the  rosary  o'er 
Of  her  love's  promised  graces  :  —  haply  so 

Miranda's  hope  had  pictured  Ferdinand 

Long  ere  the  gaunt  wave  tossed  him  on  the  strand. 


82 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


XIII. 

A  new-made  star  that  swims  the  lonely  gloom, 

Un wedded  yet  and  longing  for  the  sun, 
Whose  beams,  the  bride-gifts  of  the  lavish  groom, 

Blithely  to  crown  the  virgin  planet  run, 
Her  being  was,  watching  to  see  the  bloom 
*    Of  love's  fresh  sunrise  roofing  one  by  one 
Its  clouds  with  gold,  a  triumph-arch  to  be 
For  him  who  came  to  hold  her  heart  in  fee. 

XIV. 

Not  far  from  Margaret's  cottage  dwelt  a  knight 
Of  the  proud  Templars,  a  sworn  celibate, 

Whose  heart  in  secret  fed  upon  the  light 

And   dew  of  her  ripe  beauty,  through  the 
grate 

Of   his   close   vow   catching  what   gleams  he 
might 

Of  the  free  heaven,  and  cursing  all  too  late 
The  cruel  faith  whose  black  walls  hemmed  him  in 
And  turned  life's  crowning  bliss  to  deadly  sin. 

xv. 

For  he  had  met  her  in  the  wood  by  chance, 

And,  having  drunk   her  beauty's  wildering 
spell, 

His  heart  shook  like  the  pennon  of  a  lance 
That  quivers  in  a  breeze's  sudden  swell, 
And  thenceforth,  in  a  close-infolded  trance, 
.From  mistily  golden  deep  to  deep  he  fell ; 
Till  earth  did  waver  and  fade  far  away 
Beneath  the  hope  in  whose  warm  arms  he  lay. 


A  LEGEND  OF  BRITTANY 


83 


XVI. 

A  dark,  proud  man  he  was,  whose  half-blown 
youth 

Had  shed  its  blossoms  even  in  opening, 
Leaving  a  few  that  with  more  winning  ruth 

Trembling  around  grave  manhood's  stem  might 
cling, 

More  sad  than  cheery,  making,  in  good  sooth, 

Like  the  fringed  gentian,  a  late  autumn  spring : 
A  twilight  nature,  braided  light  and  'gloom, 
A  youth  half-smiling  by  an  open  tomb. 

XVII. 

Fair  as  an  angel,  who  yet  inly  wore 

A  wrinkled  heart  foreboding  his  near  fall ; 

Who  saw  him  alway  wished  to  know  him  more, 
As  if  he  were  some  fate's  defiant  thrall 

And  nursed  a  dreaded  secret  at  his  core ; 
Little  he  loved,  but  power  the  most  of  all, 

And  that  he  seemed  to  scorn,  as  one  who  knew 

By  what  foul  paths  men  choose  to  crawl  thereto. 

XVIII. 

He  had  been  noble,  but  some  great  deceit 
Had  turned  his  better  instinct  to  a  vice  : 

He  strove  to  think  the  world  was  all  a  cheat, 
That  power  and  fame  were  cheap  at  any  price, 

That  the  sure  way  of  being  shortly  great 

Was   even  to  play  life's   game  with  loaded 
dice, 

Since  he  had  tried  the  honest  play  and  found 
That  vice  and  virtue  differed  but  in  sound. 


84 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


XIX. 

Yet  Margaret's  sight  redeemed  him  for  a  space 
From  his  own  thraldom  ;  man  could  never  be 

A  hypocrite  when  first  such  maiden  grace 
Smiled  in  upon  his  heart ;  the  agony 

Of  wearing  all  day  long  a  lying  face 

Fell  lightly  from  him,  and,  a  moment  free, 

Erect  with  wakened  faith  his  spirit  stood 

And  scorned  the  weakness  of  his  demon-mood* 

xx. 

Like  a  sweet  wind-harp  to  him  was  her  thought, 
Which  would  not  let  the  common  air  come 
near, 

Till  from  its  dim  enchantment  it  had  caught 
A  musical  tenderness  that  brimmed  his  ear 

With  sweetness  more  ethereal  than  aught 
Save  silver-dropping  snatches  that  whilere 

Rained   down   from   some  sad   angel's  faithful 
harp 

To  cool  her  fallen  lover's  anguish  sharp. 

XXI. 

Deep  in  the  forest  was  a  little  dell 

High  overarched  with  the  leafy  sweep 
Of  a  broad  oak,  through  whose  gnarled  roots  there 
fell 

A  slender  rill  that  sung  itself  to  sleep, 
Where  its  continuous  toil  had  scooped  a  well 

To  please  the  fairy  folk ;  breathlessly  deep 
The  stillness  was,  save  when  the  dreaming  brook 
From  its  small  urn  a  drizzly  murmur  shook. 


A  LEGEND  OF  BRITTANY 


85 


XXII. 

The  wooded  hills  sloped  upward  all  around 
With  gradual  rise,  and  made  an  even  rim, 

So  that  it  seemed  a  mighty  casque  unbound 
From  some  huge  Titan's  brow  to  lighten  him, 

Ages  ago,  and  left  upon  the  ground, 

Where  the  slow  soil  had  mossed  it  to  the  brim, 

Till  after  countless  centuries  it  grew  { 

Into  this  dell,  the  haunt  of  noontide  dew. 

XXIII. 

Dim  vistas,  sprinkled  o'er  with  sun-flecked  green, 
Wound  through  the  thickset  trunks  on  every 
side, 

And,  toward  the  west,  in  fancy  might  be  seen 
A  Gothic  window  in  its  blazing  pride, 

When  the  low  sun,  two  arching  elms  between, 
Lit  up  the  leaves  beyond,  which,  autumn-dyed 

With  lavish  hues,  would  into  splendor  start, 

Shaming  the  labored  panes  of  richest  art. 

XXIY. 

Here,  leaning  once  against  the  old  oak's  trunk, 
Mordred,  for  such  was  the   young  Templar's 
name, 

Saw  Margaret  come  ;  unseen,  the  falcon  shrunk 
From  the  meek  dove ;  sharp  thrills  of  tingling 
flame 

Made  him  forget  that  he  was  vowed  a  monk, 

And  all  the  outworks  of  his  pride  o'ercame : 
Flooded  he  seemed  with  bright  delicious  pain, 
As  if  a  star  had  burst  within  his  brain. 


80 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


XXV. 

Such  power  hath  beauty  and  frank  innocence : 
A  fbwer  bloomed  forth,  that  sunshine  glad  to 
bless, 

Even  from  his  love's  long  leafless  stem ;  the  sense 

Of  exile  from  Hope's  happy  realm  grew  less, 
And  thoughts  of   childish   peace,  he  knew  not 
whence, 

Thronged  round  his  heart  with  many  an  old 
caress, 

Melting  the  frost  there  into  pearly  dew 

That  mirrored  back  his  nature's  morning-blue. 

XXVI. 

She  turned  and  saw  him,  but  she  felt  no  dread, 

Her  purity,  like  adamantine  mail, 
Did  so  encircle  her ;  and  yet  her  head 

She  drooped,  and  made  her  golden  hair  her 
veil, 

Through  which  a  glow  of  rosiest  lustre  spread, 

Then  faded,  and  anon  she  stood  all  pale, 
As  snow  o'er  which  a  blush  of  northern-light 
Suddenly  reddens,  and  as  soon  grows  white. 

XXVII. 

She  thought  of  Tristrem  and  of  Lancilot, 

Of  all  her  dreams,  and  of  kind  fairies'  might, 

And  how  that  dell  was  deemed  a  haunted  spot, 
Until  there  grew  a  mist  before  her  sight, 

And  where  the  present  was  she  half  forgot, 

Borne  backward  through  the  realms  of  old  de- 
light,— 


A  LEGEND  OF  BRITTANY  87 


Then,  starting  up  awake,  she  would  have  gone, 
Yet  almost  wished  it  might  not  be  alone, 

XXVIII. 

How  they  went  homejfcogether  through  the  wood, 
And  how  all  life  seemed  focussed  into  one 

Thought-dazzling  spot  that  set  ablaze  ^he  blood, 
What  need  to  tell  ?    Fit  language  there  is  none 

For  the  heart's  deepest  things.    Who  ever  wooed 
As  in  his  boyish  hope  he  would  have  done  ? 

For,  when  the  soul  is  fullest,  the  hushed  tongue 

Voicelessly  trembles  like  a  lute  unstrung. 

XXIX. 

But  all  things  carry  the  heart's  messages 

And  know  it  not,  nor  doth  the  heart  well  know, 

But  Nature  hath  her  will ;  even  as  the  bees, 
Blithe  go-betweens,  fly  singing  to  and  fro 

With  the  fruit-quickening  pollen;  —  hard  if  these 
Found  not  some  all  unthought-of  way  to  show 

Their  secret  each  to  each ;  and  so  they  did, 

And  one  heart's  flower-dust  into  the  other  slid. 

XXX. 

Young  hearts  are  free ;  the  selfish  world  it  is 
That  turns  them  miserly  and  cold  as  stone, 

And  makes  them  clutch  their  fingers  on  the  bliss 
Which  but  in  giving  truly  is  their  own  ;  — 

She  had  no  dreams  of  barter,  asked  not  his, 
But  gave  hers  freely  as  she  would  have  thrown 

A  rose  to  him,  or  as  that  rose  gives  forth 

Its  generous  fragrance,  thoughtless  of  its  worth. 


88  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


XXXI. 

Her  summer  nature  felt  a  need  to  bless, 
And  a  like  longing  to  be  blest  again ; 

So,  from  her  sky-like  spirit,  gentleness 
Dropt  ever  like  a  sunlit  fall  of  rain, 

And  his  beneath  drank  in  the  bright  caress 
As  thirstily  as  would  a  parched  plain, 

That  long  hath  watched  the  showers  of  sloping 
gray 

For  ever,  ever,  falling  far  away. 

XXXII. 

How  should  she  dream  of  ill  ?  the  heart  filled 
quite 

With  sunshine,  like  the  shepherd' s-clock  at  noon, 
Closes  its  leaves  around  its  warm  delight ; 

Whate'er  in  life  is  harsh  or  out  of  tune 
Is  all  shut  out,  no  boding  shade  of  blight 

Can  pierce  the  opiate  ether  of  its  swoon : 
Love  is  but  blind  as  thoughtful  justice  is, 
But  naught  can  be  so  wanton-blind  as  bliss. 

XXXIII. 

All  beauty  and  all  life  he  was  to  her ; 

She  questioned  not  his  love,  she  only  knew 
That  she  loved  him,  and  not  a  pulse  could  stir 

In  her  whole  frame  but  quivered  through  and 
4  through 

With  this  glad  thought,  and  was  a  minister 

To  do  him  fealty  and  service  true, 
Like  golden  ripples  hasting  to  the  land 
To  wreck  their  freight  of  sunshine  on  the  strand. 


A  LEGEND  OF  BRITTANY 


89 


XXXIV. 

O  dewy  dawn  of  love  !    0  hopes  that  are 

Hung  high,  like  the  cliff-swallow's  perilous  nest, 

Most  like  to  fall  when  fullest,  and  that  jar 
With  every  heavier  billow !    O  unrest 

Than  balmiest  deeps  of  quiet  sweeter  far ! 

How  did  ye  triumph  now  in  Margaret/s  breast, 

Making  it  readier  to  shrink  and  start 

Than  quivering  gold  of  the  pond-lily's  heart ! 

XXXV. 

Here  let  us  pause :    oh,  would  the  soul  might 
ever 

Achieve  its  immortality  in  youth, 
When  nothing  yet  hath  damped  its  high  endeavor 

After  the  starry  energy  of  truth ! 
Here  let  us  pause,  and  for  a  moment  sever 

This  gleam  of  sunshine  from  the  sad  unruth 
That  sometime  comes  to  all,  for  it  is  good 
To  lengthen  to  the  last  a  sunny  mood. 


PART  SECOND 
I. 

As  one  who,  from  the  sunshine  and  the  green, 

Enters  the  solid  darkness  of  a  cave, 
Nor  knows  what  precipice  or  pit  unseen 

May  yawn  before  him  with  its  sudden  grave, 
And,  with  hushed  breath,  doth  often  forward  lean? 

Dreaming  he  hears  the  plashing  of  a  wave 


90  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


Dimly  below,  or  feels  a  damper  air 

From  out  some  dreary  chasm,  he  knows  not  where ; 

II. 

So,  from  the  sunshine  and  the  green  of  love, 
We  enter  on  our  story's  darker  part ; 

And,  though  the  horror  of  it  well  may  move 
An  impulse  of  repugnance  in  the  heart, 

Yet  let  us  think,  that,  as  there  *s  naught  above 
The  all-embracing  atmosphere  of  Art, 

So  also  there  is  naught  that  falls  below 

Her  generous  reach,  though  grimed  with  guilt 
and  woe. 

III. 

Her  fittest  triumph  is  to  show  that  good 

Lurks  in  the  heart  of  evil  evermore, 
That  love,  though  scorned,  and  outcast,  and  with- 
stood, 

Can  without  end  forgive,  and  yet  have  store ; 
God's  love  and  man's  are  of  the  selfsame  blood, 

And  He  can  see  that  always  at  the  door 
Of  foulest  hearts  the  angel-nature  yet 
Knocks  to  return  and  cancel  all  its  debt. 

IV. 

It  ever  is  weak  falsehood's  destiny 

That  her  thick  mask  turns  crystal  to  let  through 
The  unsuspicious  eyes  of  honesty ; 

But  Margaret's  heart  was  too  sincere  and  true 
Aught  but  plain  truth  and  faithfulness  to  see, 

And  Mordred's  for  a  time  a  little  grew 


A  LEGEND  OF  BRITTANY 


91 


To  be  like  hers,  won  by  the  mild  reproof 
Of  those  kind  eyes  that  kept  all  doubt  aloof. 

v. 

Full  oft  they  met^  as  dawn  and  twilight  meet 
In  northern  climes  ;  she  full  of  growing  day 

As  he  of  darkness,  which  before  her  fee;fc 
Shrank  gradual,  and  faded  quite  away, 

Soon  to  return ;  for  power  had  made  love  sweet 
To  him,  and,  when  his  will  had  gained  full  sway. 

The  taste  began  to  pall ;  for  never  power 

Can  sate  the  hungry  soul  beyond  an  hour. 

VI. 

He  fell  as  doth  the  tempter  ever  fall, 

Even  in  the  gaining  of  his  loathsome  end  ; 

God  doth  not  work  as  man  works,  but  makes  all 
The  crooked  paths  of  ill  to  goodness  tend ; 

Let  him  judge  Margaret !    If  to  be  the  thrall 
Of  love,  and  faith  too  generous  to  defend 

Its  very  life  from  him  she  loved,  be  sin, 

What  hope  of  grace  may  the  seducer  win  ? 

VII. 

Grim-hearted  world,  that  look'st  with  Levite  eyes 
On  those  poor  fallen  by  too  much  faith  in  man, 

She  that  upon  thy  freezing  threshold  lies, 
Starved  to  more  sinning  by  thy  savage  ban9 

Seeking  that  refuge  because  foulest  vice 

More  godlike  than  thy  virtue  is,  whose  span 

Shuts  out  the  wretched  only,  is  more  free 

To  enter  heaven  than  thou  shalt  ever  be ! 


92 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


VIII. 

Thou  wilt  not  let  her  wash  thy  dainty  feet 

With  such  salt  things  as  tears,  or  with  rude  hair 

Dry  them,  soft  Pharisee,  that  sit'st  at  meat 

With  him  who  made  her  such,  and  speak'st  him 
fair, 

Leaving  God's  wandering  lamb  the  while  to  bleat 

Unheeded,  shivering  in  the  pitiless  air : 
Thou  hast  made  prisoned  virtue  show  more  wan 
And  haggard  than  a  vice  to  look  upon. 

IX. 

Now  many  months  flew  by,  and  weary  grew 
To  Margaret  the  sight  of  happy  things ; 

Blight  fell  on  all  her  flowers,  instead  of  dew ; 

Shut  round  her  heart  were  now  the  joyous  wings 

Wherewith  it  wont  to  soar ;  yet  not  untrue, 

Though   tempted   much,  her  woman's  nature 
clings 

To  its  first  pure  belief,  and  with  sad  eyes 
Looks  backward  o'er  the  gate  of  Paradise. 

x. 

And  so,  though  altered  Mordred  came  less  oft, 
And  winter  frowned  where  spring  had  laughed 
before 

In  his  strange  eyes,  yet  half  her  sadness  doffed, 
And  in  her  silent  patience  loved  him  more : 

Sorrow  had  made  her  soft  heart  yet  more  soft, 
And  a  new  life  within  her  own  she  bore 

Which  made  her  tenderer,  as  she  felt  it  move 

Beneath  her  breast,  a  refuge  for  her  love. 


A  LEGEND  OF  BRITTANY  93 


XI. 

This  babe,  she  thought,_would  surely  bring  him 
back, 

And  be  a  bond  forever  them  between  ; 
Before  its  eyes  the  sullen  tempest-rack 

Would  fade,  and  leave  the  face  of  heaven  se- 

t 

rene  ; 

And  love's  return  doth  more  than  fill  the  lack, 

Which  in  his  absence  withered  the  heart's  green : 
And  yet  a  dim  foreboding  still  would  flit 
Between  her  and  her  hope  to  darken  it, 

XII. 

She  could  not  figure  forth  a  happy  fate, 

Even  for  this  life  from  heaven  so  newly  come  ; 

The  earth  must  needs  be  doubly  desolate 
To  him  scarce  parted  from  a  fairer  home : 

Such  boding  heavier  on  her  bosom  sate 

One  night,  as,  standing  in  the  twilight  gloam, 

She  strained  her  eyes  beyond  that  dizzy  verge 

At  whose  foot  faintly  breaks  the  future's  surge. 

XIII. 

Poor  little  spirit !  naught  but  shame  and  woe 
Nurse  the  sick  heart  whose  lifeblood  nurses 
thine : 

Yet  not  those  only  ;  love  hath  triumphed  so, 
As  for  thy  sake  makes  sorrow  more  divine : 

And  yet,  though  thou  be  pure,  the  world  is  foe 
To  purity,  if  born  in  such  a  shrine ; 

And,  having  trampled  it  for  struggling  thence, 

Smiles  to  itself,  and  calls  it  Providence. 


94 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


XIV„ 

As  thus  she  mused,  a  shadow  seemed  to  rise 
From  out  her  thought,  and  turn  to  dreariness 

All  blissful  hopes  and  sunny  memories, 

And  the  quick  blood  would  curdle  up  and  press 

About  her  heart,  which  seemed  to  shut  its  eyes 
And  hush  itself,  as  who  with  shuddering  guess 

Harks  through  the  gloom  and  dreads  e'en  now  to 
feel 

Through  his  hot  breast  the  icy  slide  of  steel, 
xv. 

But,  at  that  heart-beat,  while  in  dread  she  was, 
In  the  low  wind  the  honeysuckles  gleam, 

A  dewy  thrill  flits  through  the  heavy  grass, 
And,  looking  forth,  she  saw,  as  in  a  dream, 

Within  the  wood  the  moonlight's  shadowy  mass : 
Night's  starry  heart  yearning  to  hers  doth  seem, 

And  the  deep  sky,  full-hearted  with  the  moon, 

Folds  round  her  all  the  happiness  of  June. 

XVI. 

What  fear  could  face  a  heaven  and  earth  like  this  ? 
What  silveriest  cloud  could  hang  'neath  such  a 
sky? 

A  tide  of  wondrous  and  unwonted  bliss 

Rolls  back  through  all  her  pulses  suddenly, 

As  if  some  seraph,  who  had  learned  to  kiss 

From  the  fair  daughters  of  the  world  gone  by, 

Had  wedded  so  his  fallen  light  with  hers, 

Such  sweet,  strange  joy  through  soul  and  body  stirs. 


A  LEGEND  OF  BRITTANY 


XVII. 

Now  seek  we  Mordred  :  he  who  did  not  fear 
The  crime,  yet  fears  the  latent  consequence : 

If  it  should  reach  a  brother  Templar's  ear, 
It  haply  might  be  made  a  good  pretence 

To  cheat  him  of  the  hope  he  held  most  dear  ; 
For  he  had  spared  no  thought's  or  deed's  ex- 
pense, 

That  by  and  by  might  help  his  wish  to  clip 
Its  darling  bride,  —  the  high  grandmastership. 

XVIII. 

The  apathy,  ere  a  crime  resolved  is  done, 

Is  scarce  less  dreadful  than  remorse  for  crime 

By  no  allurement  can  the  soul  be  won 

From  brooding  o'er  the  weary  creep  of  time  : 

Mordred  stole  forth  into  the  happy  sun, 
Striving  to  hum  a  scrap  of  Breton  rhyme, 

But  the  sky  struck  him  speechless,  and  he  tried 

In  vain  to  summon  up  his  callous  pride. 

XIX. 

In  the  courtyard  a  fountain  leaped  alway, 
A  Triton  blowing  jewels  through  his  shell 

Into  the  sunshine  ;  Mordred  turned  away, 
Weary  because  the  stone  face  did  not  tell 

Of  weariness,  nor  could  he  bear  to-day, 

Heartsick,   to   hear   the   patient   sink  and 
swell 

Of  winds  among  the  leaves,  or  golden  bees 
Drowsily  humming  in  the  orange-trees. 


9G 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


XX. 

All  happy  sights  and  sounds  now  came  to  him 
Like  a  reproach :  he  wandered  far  and  wide, 

Following  the  lead  of  his  unquiet  whim, 
But  still  there  went  a  something  at  his  side 

That  made  the  cool  breeze  hot,  the  sunshine 
dim ; 

It  would  not  flee,  it  could  not  be  defied, 
He  could  not  see  it,  but  he  felt  it  there, 
By  the  damp  chill  that  crept  among  his  hair. 

XXI. 

Day  wore  at  last ;  the  evening-star  arose, 
And  throbbing  in  the  sky  grew  red  and  set ; 

Then  with  a  guilty,  wavering  step  he  goes 
To  the  hid  nook  where  they  so  oft  had  met 

In  happier  season,  for  his  heart  well  knows 
That  he  is  sure  to  find  poor  Margaret 

Watching  and  waiting  there  with  love-lorn  breast 

Around  her  young  dream's  rudely  scattered  nest. 

XXII. 

Why  follow  here  that  grim  old  chronicle 

Which  counts  the  dagger-strokes  and  drops  of 
blood  ? 

Enough  that  Margaret  by  his  mad  steel  fell, 
Unmoved  by  murder  from  her  trusting  mood, 

Smiling  on  him  as  Heaven  smiles  on  Hell, 
With  a  sad  love,  remembering  when  he  stood 

Not  fallen  yet,  the  unsealer  of  her  heart, 

Of  all  her  holy  dreams  the  holiest  part. 


A  LEGEND  OF  BRITTANY  97 


XXIII. 

His  crime  complete,  scarce  knowing  what  he  did, 
(So  goes  the  tale,)  beneath  the  altar  there 

In  the  high  church  the  stiffening  corpse  he  hid, 
And  then,  to  'scape  that  suffocating  air, 

Like  a  scared  ghoul  out  of  the  porch  he  slid  ; 
But  his  strained  eyes  saw  blood-spots  everywhere, 

And  ghastly  faces  thrust  themselves  between 

His  soul  and  hopes  of  peace  with  blasting  mien. 

XXIY. 

His  heart  went  out  within  him  like  a  spark 
Dropt  in  the  sea ;  wherever  he  made  bold 

To  turn  his  eyes,  he  saw,  all  stiff  and  stark, 
Pale  Margaret  lying  dead  ;  the  lavish  gold 

Of  her  loose  hair  seemed  in  the  cloudy  dark 
To  spread  a  glory,  and  a  thousand-fold 

More  strangely  pale  and  beautiful  she  grew : 

Her  silence  stabbed  his  conscience   through  and 
through. 

XXV. 

Or  visions  of  past  days,  —  a  mother's  eyes 

That  smiled  down  on  the  fair  boy  at  her  knee, 

Whose  happy  upturned  face  to  hers  replies,  — 
He  saw  sometimes  :  or  Margaret  mournfully 

Gazed  on  him  full  of  doubt,  as  one  who  tries 
To  crush  belief  that  does  love  injury ; 

Then  she  would  wring  her  hands,  but  soon  again 

Love's  patience  glimmered  out  through  cloudy 
pain. 


98 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


XXVI. 

Meanwhile  he  dared  not  go  and  steal  away 
The  silent,  dead-cold  witness  of  his  sin  ; 

He  had  not  feared  the  life,  but  that  dull  clay, 
Those  open  eyes  that  showed  the  death  within, 

Would  surely  stare  him  mad  ;  yet  all  the  day 
A  dreadful  impulse,  whence  his  will  could 
win 

No  refuge,  made  him  linger  in  the  aisle, 
Freezing  with  his  wan  look  each  greeting  smile. 

XXVII. 

Now,  on  the  second  day  there  was  to  be 
A  festival  in  church  :  from  far  and  near 

Came  flocking  in  the  sunburnt  peasantry, 

And  knights  and  dames  with^stately  antique 
cheer, 

Blazing  with  pomp,  as  if  all  faerie 

Had  emptied  her  quaint  halls,  or,  as  it  were, 
The  illuminated  marge  of  some  old  book, 
While  we  were  gazing,  life  and  motion  took. 

XXVIII. 

When  all  were  entered,  and  the  roving  eyes 
Of  all  were  stayed,  some  upon  faces  bright, 

Some  on  the  priests,  some  on  the  traceries 
That  decked  the  slumber  of  a  marble  knight, 

And  all  the  rustlings  over  that  arise 
From  recognizing  tokens  of  delight, 

When  friendly  glances  meet,  —  then  silent  ease 

Spread  o'er  the  multitude  by  slow  degrees. 


A  LEGEND  OF  BRITTANY 


99 


XXIX. 

Then  swelled  the  organ  :  up  through  choir  and 
nave 

The  music  trembled  with  an  inward  thrill 
Of  bliss  at  its  own  grandeur  :  wave  on  wave 

Its  flood  of  mellow  thunder  rose,  until 
The  hushed  air  shivered  with  the  throb  it  gave, 

Then,  poising  for  a  moment,  it  stood  still, 
And  sank  and  rose  again,  to  burst  in  spray 
That  wandered  into  silence  far  away. 

XXX. 

Like  to  a  mighty  heart  the  music  seemed, 
That  yearns  with  melodies  it  cannot  speak, 

Until,  in  grand  despair  of  what  it  dreamed, 
In  the  agony  of  effort  it  doth  break, 

Yet  triumphs  breaking  ;  on  it  rushed  and  streamed 
And  wantoned  in  its  might,  as  when  a  lake, 

Long  pent  among  the  mountains,  bursts  its  walls 

And  in  one  crowding  gush  leaps  forth  and  falls. 

XXXI. 

Deeper  and  deeper  shudders  shook  the  air, 
As  the  huge  bass  kept  gathering  heavily, 

Like  thunder  when  it  rouses  in  its  lair, 

And  with  its  hoarse  growl  shakes  the  low-hung 
sky, 

It  grew  up  like  a  darkness  everywhere, 

Filling  the  vast  cathedral ;  —  suddenly, 
From  the  dense  mass  a  boy's  clear  treble  broke 
Like  lightning,  and  the  full-toned  choir  awoke. 


100  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


XXXII. 

Through  gorgeous  windows  shone  the  sun  aslant, 
Brimming  the  church  with  gold  #nd  purple 
mist, 

Meet  atmosphere  to  bosom  that  rich  chant, 
Where  fifty  voices  in  one  strand  did  twist 

Their  varicolored  tones,  and  left  no  want 
To  the  delighted  soul,  which  sank  abyssed 

In  the  warm  music  cloud,  while,  far  below, 

The  organ  heaved  its  surges  to  and  fro. 

XXXIII. 

As  if  a  lark  should  suddenly  drop  dead 

While  the  blue  air  yet  trembled  with  its  song, 

So  snapped  at  once  that  music's  golden  thread, 
Struck  by  a  nameless  fear  that  leapt  along 

From  heart  to  heart,  and  like  a  shadow  spread 
With  instantaneous  shiver  through  the  throng, 

So  that  some  glanced  behind,  as  half  aware 

A  hideous  shape  of  dread  were  standing  there. 

XXXIV. 

As  when  a  crowd  of  pale  men  gather  round, 
Watching  an  eddy  in  the  leaden  deep, 

From  which  they  deem  the  body  of  one  drowned 
Will  be  cast  forth,  from  face  to  face  doth  creep 

An  eager  dread  that  holds  all  tongues  fast  bound 
Until  the  horror,  with  a  ghastly  leap, 

Starts   up,  its   dead  blue  arms  stretched  aim- 
lessly, 

Heaved  with  the  swinging  of  the  careless  sea,  — 


A  LEGEND  OF  BRITTANY 


101 


XXXV. 

So  in  the  faces  of  all  these  there  grew, 
As  by  one  impulse,  a  dark,  freezing  awe, 

Which,  with  a  fearful  fascination  drew 
All  eyes  toward  the  altar ;  damp  and  raw 

The  air  grew  suddenly,  and  no  man  knew 
Whether  perchance  his  silent  neighbor  saw 

The  dreadful  thing  which  all  were  sure  would 
rise 

To  scare  the  strained  lids  wider  from  their  eyes. 
XXXVI. 

The  incense  trembled  as  it  upward  sent 

Its  slow,  uncertain  thread  of  wandering  blue, 

As  't  were  the  only  living  element 

In  all  the  church,  so  deep  the  stillness  grew  \ 

It  seemed  one  might  have  heard  it,  as  it  went, 
Give  out  an  audible  rustle,  curling  through 

The  midnight  silence  of  that  awestruck  air, 

More  hushed  than  death,  though  so  much  life  was 
there. 

XXXVII. 

Nothing  they  saw,  but  a  low  voice  was  heard 
Threading  the  ominous  silence  of  that  fear, 

Gentle  and  terrorless  as  if  a  bird, 

Wakened  by  some  volcano's  glare,  should  cheer 

The  murk  air  with  his  song  ;  yet  every  word 
In  the  cathedral's  farthest  arch  seemed  near, 

As  if  it  spoke  to  every  one  apart, 

Like  the  clear  voice  of  conscience  in  each  heart. 


102  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


XXXVIII. 

"  O  Rest,  to  weary  hearts  thou  art  most  dear ! 

O  Silence,  after  life's  bewildering  din, 
Thou  art  most  welcome,  whether  in  the  sear 

Days  of  our  age  thou  comest,  or  we  win 
Thy  poppy- wreath  in  youth !  then  wherefore  here 

Linger  I  yet,  once  free  to  enter  in 
At  that  wished  gate  which  gentle  Death  doth 
ope, 

Into  the  boundless  realm  of  strength  and  hope  ? 

XXXIX. 

"  Think  not  in  death  my  love  could  ever  cease  ; 

If  thou  wast  false,  more  need  there  is  for  me 
Still  to  be  true  ;  that  slumber  were  not  peace, 

If 't  were  unvisited  with  dreams  of  thee  : 
And   thou  hadst   never  heard  such  words  as 
these, 

Save  that  in  heaven  I  must  forever  be 
Most  comfortless  and  wretched,  seeing  this 
Our  unbaptized  babe  shut  out  from  bliss. 

XL. 

"  This  little  spirit  with  imploring  eyes 
Wanders  alone  the  dreary  wild  of  space ; 

The  shadow  of  his  pain  forever  lies 

Upon  my  soul  in  this  new  dwelling-place  ; 

His  loneliness  makes  me  in  Paradise 
More  lonely,  and,  unless  I  see  his  face, 

Even  here  for  grief  could  I  lie  down  and  die, 

Save  for  my  curse  of  immortality. 


A  LEGEND  OF  BRITTANY  103 


XLI. 

"  World  after  world  lie  sees  around  him  swim 
Crowded  with  happy  souls,  that  take  no  heed 

Of  the  sad  eyes  that  from  the  night's  faint  rim 
Gaze  sick  with  longing  on  them  as  they  speed 

With  golden  gates,  that  only  shut  on  him  ; 

And  shapes  sometimes  from  hell's  abysses  freed 

Flap  darkly  by  him,  with  enormous  sweep 

Of  wings  that  roughen  wide  the  pitchy  deep. 

XLII. 

"  I  am  a  mother,  —  spirits  do  not  shake 

This  much  of  earth  from  them,  —  and  I  must 
pine 

Till  I  can  feel  his  little  hands,  and  take 
His  weary  head  upon  this  heart  of  mine ; 

And,  might  it  be,  full  gladly  for  his  sake 
Would  I  this  solitude  of  bliss  resign 

And  be  shut  out  of  heaven  to  dwell  with  him 

Forever  in  that  silence  drear  and  dim. 

XLIII. 

"  I  strove  to  hush  my  soul,  and  would  not  speak 
At  first,  for  thy  dear  sake  ;  a  woman's  love 

Is  mighty,  but  a  mother's  heart  is  weak, 
And  by  its  weakness  overcomes  ;  I  strove 

To  smother  bitter  thoughts  with  patience  meek, 
But  still  in  the  abyss  my  soul  would  rove, 

Seeking  my  child,  and  drove  me  here  to  claim 

The  rite  that  gives  him  peace  in  Christ's  dear 
name. 


104 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


"  1  sit  and  weep  while  blessed  spirits  sing ; 

I  can  but  long  and  pine  the  while  they  praise, 
And,  leaning  o'er  the  wall  of  heaven,  I  fling 

My  voice  to  where  I  deem  my  infant  strays, 
Like  a  robbed  bird  that  cries  in  vain  to  bring 

Her  nestlings  back  beneath  her  wings'  embrace  ; 
But  still  he  answers  not,  and  I  but  know 
That  heaven  and  earth  are  both  alike  in  woe." 

XLV. 

Then  the  pale  priests,  with  ceremony  due, 
Baptized  the  child  within  its  dreadful  tomb 

Beneath  that  mother's  heart,  whose  instinct  true 
Star-like  had  battled  down  the  triple  gloom 

Of  sorrow,  love,  and  death  :  young  maidens,  too, 
Strewed  the  pale  corpse  with  many  a  milkwhite 
bloom, 

And  parted  the  bright  hair,  and  on  the  breast 
Crossed  the  unconscious  hands  in  sign  of  rest. 

XL  VI. 

Some  said,  that,  when  the  priest  had  sprinkled  o'er 
The  consecrated  drops,  they  seemed  to  hear 

A  sigh,  as  of  some  heart  from  travail  sore 
Released,  and  then  two  voices  singing  clear, 

Misereatur  Deus,  more  and  more 

Fading  far  upward,  and  their  ghastly  fear 

Fell  from  them  with  that  sound,  as  bodies  fall 

From  souls  upspringing  to  celestial  hall. 


PROMETHEUS 


105 


PROMETHEUS 

One  after  one  the  stars  have  risen  and  set, 
Sparkling  upon  the  hoarfrost  on  my  chain  : 
The  Bear,  that  prowled  all  night  about  the  fold 
Of  the  North-star,  hath  shrunk  into  his  den, 
Scared  by  the  blithesome  footsteps  of  the  Dawn, 
Whose  blushing  smile  floods  all  the  Orient ; 
And  now  bright  Lucifer  grows  less  and  less, 
Into  the  heaven's  blue  quiet  deep-withdrawn. 
Sunless  and  starless  all,  the  desert  sky 
Arches  above  me,  empty  as  this  heart 
For  ages  hath  been  empty  of  all  joy, 
Except  to  brood  upon  its  silent  hope, 
As  o'er  its  hope  of  day  the  sky  doth  now. 
All  night  have  I  heard  voices :  deeper  yet 
The  deep  low  breathing  of  the  silence  grew, 
While  all  about,  muffled  in  awe,  there  stood 
Shadows,  or  forms,  or  both,  clear-felt  at  heart, 
But,  when  I  turned  to  front  them,  far  along 
Only  a  shudder  through  the  midnight  ran, 
And  the  dense  stillness  walled  me  closer  round. 
But  still  I  heard  them  wander  up  and  down 
That  solitude,  and  flappings  of  dusk  wings 
Did  mingle  with  them,  whether  of  those  hags 
Let  slip  upon  me  once  from  Hades  deep, 
Or  of  yet  direr  torments,  if  such  be, 
I  could  but  guess ;  and  then  toward  me  came 
A  shape  as  of  a  woman :  very  pale 
It  was,  and  calm ;  its  cold  eyes  did  not  move, 
And  mine  moved  not,  but  only  stared  on  them. 


106 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


Their  fixed  awe  went  through  my  brain  like  ice ; 
A  skeleton  hand  seemed  clutching  at  my  heart, 
And  a  sharp  chill,  as  if  a  dank  night  fog 
Suddenly  closed  me  in,  was  all  I  felt : 
And  then,  methought,  I  heard  a  freezing  sigh, 
A  long,  deep,  shivering  sigh,  as  from  blue  lips 
Stiffening  in  death,  close  to  mine  ear.    I  thought 
Some  doom  was  close  upon  me,  and  I  looked 
And  saw  the  red  moon  through  the  heavy  mist, 
Just  setting,  and  it  seemed  as  it  were  falling, 
Or  reeling  to  its  fall,  so  dim  and  dead 
And  palsy-struck  it   looked.     Then    all  sounds 
merged 

Into  the  rising  surges  of  the  pines, 

Which,  leagues  below  me,  clothing  the  gaunt  loins 

Of  ancient  Caucasus  with  hairy  strength, 

Sent  up  a  murmur  in  the  morning  wind, 

Sad  as  the  wail  that  from  the  populous  earth 

All  day  and  night  to  high  Olympus  soars, 

Fit  incense  to  thy  wicked  throne,  O  Jove ! 

Thy  hated  name  is  tossed  once  more  in  scorn 
From  off  my  lips,  for  I  will  tell  thy  doom. 
And  are  these  tears  ?    Nay,  do  not  triumph,  Jove  ! 
They  are  wrung  from  me  but  by  the  agonies 
Of  prophecy,  like  those  sparse  drops  which  fall 
From  clouds  in  travail  of  the  lightning,  when 
The  great  wave  of  the  storm  high-curled  and  black 
Rolls  steadily  onward  to  its  thunderous  break. 
Why  art  thou  made  a  god  of,  thou  poor  type 
Of  anger,  and  revenge,  and  cunning  force  ? 
True  Power  was  never  born  of  brutish  Strength, 


PROMETHEUS 


107 


Nor  sweet  Truth  suckled  at  the  shaggy  dugs 
Of  that  old  she-wolf.    Are  thy  thunderbolts, 
That  quell  the  darkness  for  a  space,  so  strong 
As  the  prevailing  patience  of  meek  Light, 
Who*  with  the  invincible  tenderness  of  peace, 
Wins  it  to  be  a  portion  of  herself  ? 
Why  art  thou  made  a  god  of,  thou,  who  hast 
The  never-sleeping  terror  at  thy  heart, 
That  birthright  of  all  tyrants,  worse  to  bear 
Than  this  thy  ravening  bird  on  which  I  smile  ? 
Thou  swear' st  to  free  me,  if  I  will  unfold 
What  kind  of  doom  it  is  whose  omen  flits 
Across  thy  heart,  as  o'er  a  troop  of  doves 
The  fearful,  shadow  of  the  kite.    What  need 
To  know  that  truth  whose  knowledge  cannot  save  ? 
Evil  its  errand  hath,  as  well  as  Good ; 
When  thine  is  finished,  thou  art  known  no  more : 
There  is  a  higher  purity  than  thou, 
And  higher  purity  is  greater  strength ; 
Thy  nature,  is  thy  doom,  at  which  thy  heart 
Trembles  behind  the  thick  wall  of  thy  might. 
Let  man  but  hope,  and  thou  art  straightway  chilled 
With  thought  of  that  drear  silence  and  deep  night 
Which,  like  a  dream,  shall  swallow  thee  and  thine : 
Let  man  but  will,  and  thou  art  god  no  more, 
More  capable  of  ruin  than  the  gold 
And  ivory  that  image  thee  on  earth. 
He  who  hurled  down  the  monstrous  Titan-brood 
Blinded  with    lightnings,    with  rough  thunders 
stunned, 

Is  weaker  than  a  simple  human  thought. 

My  slender  voice  can  shake  thee,  as  the  breeze, 


108  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

That  seems  but  apt  to  stir  a  maiden's  hair, 
Sways  huge  Oceanus  from  pole  to  pole ; 
For  I  am  still  Prometheus,  and  foreknow 
In  my  wise  heart  the  end  and  doom  of  all. 

Yes,  I  am  still  Prometheus,  wiser  grown 
By  years  of  solitude,  —  that  holds  apart 
The  past  and  future,  giving  the  soul  room 
To  search  into  itself,  —  and  long  commune 
With  this  eternal  silence  ;  —  more  a  god, 
In  my  long-suffering  and  strength  to  meet 
With  equal  front  the  direst  shafts  of  fate, 
Than  thou  in  thy  faint-hearted  despotism, 
Girt  with  thy  baby-toys  of  force  and  wrath. 
Yes,  I  am  that  Prometheus  who  brought  down 
The  light  to  man,  which  thou,  in  selfish  fear, 
Hadst  to  thyself  usurped,  —  his  by  sole  right, 
For  Man  hath  right  to  all  save  Tyranny,  — 
And  which  shall  free  him  yet  from  thy  frail  throne. 
Tyrants  are  but  the  spawn  of  Ignorance, 
Begotten  by  the  slaves  they  trample  on, 
Who,  could  they  win  a  glimmer  of  the  light, 
And  see  that  Tyranny  is  always  weakness, 
Or  Fear  with  its  own  bosom  ill  at  ease, 
Would  laugh  away  in  scorn  the  sand-wove  chain 
Which  their  own  blindness  feigned  for  adamant. 
Wrong  ever  builds  on  quicksands,  but  the  Right 
To  the  firm  centre  lays  its  moveless  base. 
The  tyrant  trembles,  if  the  air  but  stir 
The  innocent  ringlets  of  a  child's  free  hair, 
And  crouches,  when  the  thought  of  some  great 
spirit, 


PROMETHEUS 


109 


With  world-wide  murmur,  like  a  rising  gale, 
Over  men's  hearts,  as  over  standing  corn, 
Eushes,  and  bends  them  to  its  own  strong  will. 
So  shall  some  thought  of  mine  yet  circle  earth, 
And  puff  away  thy  crumbling  altars,  J ove  ! 

And,  wouldst  thou  know  of  my  supreme  revenge, 
Poor  tyrant,  even  now  dethroned  in  heart, 
Realmless  in  soul,  as  tyrants  ever  are, 
Listen  !  and  tell  me  if  this  bitter  peak, 
This  never-glutted  vulture,  and  these  chains 
Shrink  noij  before  it ;  for  it  shall  befit 
A  sorrow-taught,  unconquered  Titan-heart. 
Men,  when  their  death  is  on  them,  seem  to  stand 
On  a  precipitous  crag  that  overhangs 
The  abyss  of  doom,  and  in  that  depth  to  see, 
As  in  a  glass,  the  features  dim  and  vast 
Of  things  to  come,  the  shadows,  as  it  seems, 
Of  what  have  been.    Death  ever  fronts  the  wise ; 
Not  fearfully,  but  with  clear  promises 
Of  larger  life,  on  whose  broad  vans  upborne, 
Their  outlook  widens,  and  they  see  beyond 
The  horizon  of  the  Present  and  the  Past, 
Even  to  the  very  source  and  end  of  things. 
Such  am  I  now :  immortal  woe  hath  made 
My  heart  a  seer,  and  my  soul  a  judge 
Between  the  substance  and  the  shadow  of  Truth. 
The  sure  supremeness  of  the  Beautiful, 
By  all  the  martyrdoms  made  doubly  sure 
Of  such  as  I  am,  this  is  my  revenge, 
Which  of  my  wrongs  builds  a  triumphal  arch, 
Through  which  I  see  a  sceptre  and  a  throne. 


110  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


The  pipings  of  glad  shepherds  on  the  hills, 
Tending  the  flocks  no  more  to  bleed  for  thee ; 
The  songs  of  maidens  pressing  with  white  feet 
The  vintage  on  thine  altars  poured  no  more  ; 
The  murmurous  bliss  of  lovers  underneath 
Dim  grapevine  bowers  whose  rosy  bunches  press 
Not  half  so  closely  their  warm  cheeks,  impaled 
By  thoughts  of  thy  brute  lust ;  the  hive-like  hum 
Of  peaceful  commonwealths,  where  sunburnt  Toil 
Reaps  for  itself  the  rich  earth  made  its  own 
By  its  own  labor,  lightened  with  glad  hymns 
To  an  omnipotence  which  thy  mad  bolts 
Would  cope  with  as  a  spark  with  the  vast  sea,  — 
Even  the  spirit  of  free  love  and  peace, 
Duty's  sure  recompense  through  life  and  death,  — 
These  are  such  harvests  as  all  master-spirits 
Reap,  haply  not  on  earth,  but  reap  no  less 
Because  the  sheaves  are  bound  by  hands  not  theirs  ; 
These  are  the  bloodless  daggers  wherewithal 
They  stab  fallen  tyrants,  this  their  high  revenge  : 
For  their  best  part  of  life  on  earth  is  when, 
Long  after  death,  prisoned  and  pent  no  more, 
Their  thoughts,  their  wild  dreams  even,  have  be- 
come 

Part  of  the  necessary  air  men  breathe : 
When,  like  the  moon,  herself  behind  a  cloud, 
They  shed  down  light  before  us  on  life's  sea, 
That  cheers  us  to  steer  onward  still  in  hope. 
Earth  with  her  twining  memories  ivies  o'er 
Their  holy  sepulchres  ;  the  chainless  sea, 
In  tempest  or  wide  calm,  repeats  their  thoughts  ; 
The  lightning  and  the  thunder,  all  free  things, 


PROMETHEUS 


111 


Have  legends  of  them  for  the  ears  of  men. 
All  other  glories  are  as  falling  stars, 
But  universal  Nature  watches  theirs : 
Such  strength  is  won  by  love  of  Human  kind. 

Not  that  I  feel  that  hunger  after  fame, 
Which  souls  of  a  half -greatness  are  beset  with ; 
But  that  the  memory  of  noble  deeds 
Cries  shame  upon  the  idle  and  the  vile, 
And  keeps  «the  heart  of  Man  forever  up 
To  the  heroic  level  of  old  time. 
To  be  forgot  at  first  is  little  pain 
To  a  heart  conscious  of  such  high  intent 
As  must  be  deathless  on  the  lips  of  men ; 
But,  having  been  a  name,  to  sink  and  be 
A  something  which  the  world  can  do  without, 
Which,  having  been  or  not,  would  never  change 
The  lightest  pulse  of  fate,  —  this  is  indeed 
A  cup  of  bitterness  the  worst  to  taste, 
And  this  thy  heart  shall  empty  to  the  dregs. 
Endless  despair  shall  be  thy  Caucasus, 
And  memory  thy  vulture  ;  thou  wilt  find 
Oblivion  far  lonelier  than  this  peak. 
Behold  thy  destiny !    Thou  think'st  it  much 
That  I  should  brave  thee,  miserable  god ! 
But  I  have  braved  a  mightier  than  thou, 
Even  the  sharp  tempting  of  this  soaring  heart, 
Which  might  have  made  me,  scarcely  less  than 
thou, 

A  god  among  my  brethren  weak  and  blind, 
Scarce  less  than  thou,  a  pitiable  thing 
To  be  down-trodden  into  darkness  soon, 


112 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


But  now  I  am  above  thee,  for  thou  art 

The  bungling  workmanship  of  fear,  the  block 

That  awes  the  swart  Barbarian ;  but  I 

Am  what  myself  have  made,  —  a  nature  wise 

With  finding  in  itself  the  types  of  all, 

With  watching  from  the  dim  verge  of  the  time 

What  things  to  be  are  visible  in  the  gleams 

Thrown  forward  on  them  from  the  luminous  past, 

Wise  with  the  history  of  its  own  frail  heart, 

With  reverence  and  with  sorrow,  and  with  love, 

Broad  as  the  world,  for  freedom  and  for  man. 

Thou  and  all  strength  shall  crumble,  except 
Love, 

By  whom,  and  for  whose  glory,  ye  shall  cease  : 
And,  when  thou  'rt  but  a  weary  moaning  heard 
From  out  the  pitiless  gloom  of  Chaos,  I 
Shall  be  a  power  and  a  memory, 
A  name  to  fright  all  tyrants  with,  a  light 
Unsetting  as  the  pole-star,  a  great  voice 
Heard  in  the  breathless  pauses  of  the  fight 
By  truth  and  freedom  ever  waged  with  wrong, 
Clear  as  a  silver  trumpet,  to  awake 
Far  echoes  that  from  age  to  age  live  on 
In  kindred  spirits,  giving  them  a  sense 
Of    boundless  power  from   boundless  suffering 
wrung : 

And  many  a  glazing  eye  shall  smile  to  see 
The  memory  of  my  triumph  (for  to  meet 
Wrong  with  endurance,  and  to  overcome 
The  present  with  a  heart  that  looks  beyond, 
Are  triumph),  like  a  prophet  eagle,  perch 


PROMETHEUS 


113 


Upon  the  sacred  banner  of  the  Right. 
Evil  springs  up,  and  flowers,  and  bears  no  seed, 
And  feeds  the  green  earth  with  its  swift  decay, 
Leaving  it  richer  for  the  growth  of  truth ; 
But  Good,  once  put  in  action  or  in  thought, 
Like  a  strong  oak,  doth  from  its  boughs  shed 
down 

The  ripe  germs  of  a  forest.    Thou,  weak  god, 
Shalt  fade  and  be  forgotten !  but  this  soul, 
Fresh-living  still  in  the  serene  abyss, 
In  every  heaving  shall  partake,  that  grows 
From  heart  to  heart  among  the  sons  of  men,  — 
As  the  ominous  hum  before  the  earthquake  runs 
Far  through  the  iEgean  from  roused  isle  to  isle,  — 
Foreboding  wreck  to  palaces  and  shrines, 
And  mighty  rents  in  many  a  cavernous  error 
That  darkens  the  free  light  to  man :  —  This  heart, 
Un scarred  by  thy  grim  vulture,  as  the  truth 
Grows  but  more  lovely  'neath  the  beaks  and  claws 
Of  Harpies  blind  that  fain  would  soil  it,  shall 
In  all  the  throbbing  exultations  share 
That  wait  on  freedom's  triumphs,  and  in  all 
The  glorious  agonies  of  martyr-spirits, 
Sharp  lightning-throes  to  split  the  jagged  clouds 
That  veil  the  future,  showing  them  #he  end, 
Pain's  thorny  crown  for  constancy  and  truth, 
Girding  the  temples  like  a  wreath  of  stars. 
This  is  a  thought,  that,  like  the  fabled  laurel, 
Makes  my  faith  thunder-proof ;  and  thy  dread 
bolts 

Fall  on  me  like  the  silent  flakes  of  snow 
On  the  hoar  brows  of  aged  Caucasus  : 


114 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


But,  oh,  thought  far  more  blissful,  they  can  rend 
This  cloud  of  flesh,  and  make  my  soul  a  star ! 

Unleash  thy  crouching  thunders  now,  O  Jove  ! 
Free  this  high  heart,  which,  a  poor  captive  long, 
Doth  knock  to  be  let  forth,  this  heart  which  still, 
In  its  invincible  manhood,  overtops 
Thy  puny  godship,  as  this  mountain  doth 
The  pines  that  moss  its  roots.    Oh,  even  now, 
While  from  my  peak  of  suffering  I  look  down, 
Beholding  with  a  far-spread  gush  of  hope 
The  sunrise  of  that  Beauty,  in  whose  face, 
Shone  all  around  with  love,  no  man  shall  look 
But  straightway  like  a  god  he  be  uplift 
Unto  the  throne  long  empty  for  his  sake, 
And  clearly  oft  foreshadowed  in  brave  dreams 
By  his  free  inward  nature,  which  nor  thou, 
Nor  any  anarch  after  thee,  can  bind 
From  working  its  great  doom,  —  now,  now  set  free 
This  essence,  not  to  die,  but  to  become 
Part  of  that  awful  Presence  which  doth  haunt 
The  palaces  of  tyrants,  to  scare  off, 
With  its  grim  eyes  and  fearful  whisperings 
And  hideous  sense  of  utter  loneliness, 
All  hope  of  safety,  all  desire  of  peace, 
All  but  the  loathed  forefeeling  of  blank  death,  — 
Part  of  that  spirit  which  doth  ever  brood 
In  patient  calm  on  the  unpilfered  nest 
Of  man's  deep  heart,  till  mighty  thoughts  grow 
fledged 

To  sail  with  darkening  shadow  o'er  the  world, 
Filling  with  dread  such  souls  as  dare  not  trust 


PROMETHEUS 


115 


In  the  unfailing  energy  of  Good, 
Until  they  swoop,  and  their  pale  quarry  make 
Of  some  o'erbloated  wrong,  —  that  spirit  which 
Scatters  great  hopes  in  the  seed-field  of  man, 
Like  acorns  among  grain,  to  grow  and  be 
A  roof  for  freedom  in  all  coming  time  ! 

But  no,  this  cannot  be  ;  for  ages  yet, 
In  solitude  unbroken,  shall  I  hear 
The  angry  Caspian  to  the  Euxine  shout, 
And  Euxine  answer  with  a  muffled  roar, 
On  either  side  storming  the  giant  walls 
Of  Caucasus  with  leagues  of  climbing  foam 
(Less,  from  my  height,  than  flakes  of  downy 
snow), 

That  draw  back  baffled  but  to  hurl  again, 

Snatched  up  in  wrath  and  horrible  turmoil, 

Mountain  on  mountain,  as  the  Titans  erst, 

My  brethren,  scaling  the  high  seat  of  Jove, 

Heaved  Pelion  upon  Ossa's  shoulders  broad 

In  vain  emprise.    The  moon  will  come  and  go 

With  her  monotonous  vicissitude  ; 

Once  beautiful,  when  I  was  free  to  walk 

Among  my  fellows,  and  to  interchange 

The  influence  benign  of  loving  eyes, 

But  now  by  aged  use  grown  wearisome  ;  — 

False  thought !  most  false  !  for  how  could  I  endure 

These  crawling  centuries  of  lonely  woe 

Un shamed  by  weak  complaining,  but  for  thee, 

Loneliest,  save  me,  of  all  created  things, 

Mild-eyed  Astarte,  my  best  comforter, 

With  thy  pale  smile  of  sad  benignity  ? 


116  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


Year  after  year  will  pass  away  and  seem 
To  me,  in  mine  eternal  agony, 
But  as  the  shadows  of  dumb  summer  clouds, 
Which  I  have  watched  so  often  darkening  o'er 
The  vast  Sarmatian  plain,  league-wide  at  first, 
But,  with  still  swiftness,  lessening  on  and  on 
Till  cloud  and  shadow  meet  and  mingle  where 
The  gray  horizon  fades  into  the  sky, 
Far,  far  to  northward.    Yes,  for  ages  yet 
Must  I  lie  here  upon  my  altar  huge, 
A  sacrifice  for  man.    Sorrow  will  be, 
As  it  hath  been,  his  portion  ;  endless  doom, 
While  the  immortal  with  the  mortal  linked 
Dreams  of  its  wings  and  pines  for  what  it  dreams, 
With  upward  yearn  unceasing.    Better  so  : 
For  wisdom  is  stern  sorrow's  patient  child, 
And  empire  over  self,  and  all  the  deep 
Strong  charities  that  make  men  seem  like  gods  ; 
And  love,  that  makes  them  be  gods,  from  her 
breasts 

Sucks  in  the  milk  that  makes  mankind  one  blood. 
Good  never  comes  unmixed,  or  so  it  seems, 
Having  two  faces,  as  some  images 
Are  carved,  of  foolish  gods  ;  one  face  is  ill ; 
But  one  heart  lies  beneath,  and  that  is  good, 
As  are  all  hearts,  when  we  explore  their  depths. 
Therefore,  great  heart,  bear  up  !  thou  art  but  type 
Of  what  all  lofty  spirits  endure,  that  fain 
Would  win  men  back  to  strength  and  peace 

through  love  : 
Each  hath  his  lonely  peak,  and  on  each  heart 
Envy,  or  scorn,  or  hatred,  tears  lifelong 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  KING  ADMETUS  117 


With  vulture  beak  ;  yet  the  high  soul  is  left ; 
And  faith,  which  is  but  hope  grown  wise,  and  love 
And  patience  which  at  last  shall  overcome. 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF  KING  ADMETUS 

There  came  a  youth  upon  the  earth, 

Some  thousand  years  ago, 
Whose  slender  hands  were  nothing  worth, 
Whether  to  plough,  or  reap,  or  sow. 

Upon  an  empty  tortoise-shell 

He  stretched  some  chords,  and  drew 
Music  that  made  men's  bosoms  swell 
Fearless,  or  brimmed  their  eyes  with  dew. 

Then  King  Admetus,  one  who  had 

Pure  taste  by  right  divine, 
Decreed  his  singing  not  too  bad 
To  hear  between  the  cups  of  wine : 

And  so,  well  pleased  with  being  soothed 

Into  a  sweet  half-sleep, 
Three  times  his  kingly  beard  he  smoothed, 
And  made  him  viceroy  o'er  his  sheep. 

His  words  were  simple  words  enough, 

And  yet  he  used  them  so, 
That  what  in  other  mouths  was  rough 
In  his  seemed  musical  and  low. 


118 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


Men  called  him  but  a  shiftless  youth, 

In  whom  no  good  they  saw  ; 
And  yet,  unwittingly,  in  truth, 
They  made  his  careless  words  their  law. 

They  knew  not  how  he  learned  at  all, 

For  idly,  hour  by  hour, 
He  sat  and  watched  the  dead  leaves  fall, 
Or  mused  upon  a  common  flower. 

It  seemed  the  loveliness  of  things 

Did  teach  him  all  their  use, 
For,  in  mere  weeds,  and  stones,  and  springs. 
He  found  a  healing  power  profuse. 

Men  granted  that  his  speech  was  wise, 

But,  when  a  glance  they  caught 
Of  his  slim  grace  and  woman's  eyes, 
They  laughed,  and  called  him  good-for-naught. 

Yet  after  he  was  dead  and  gone, 

And  e'en  his  memory  dim, 
Earth  seemed  more  sweet  to  live  upon, 
More  full  of  love,  because  of  him. 

And  day  by  day  more  holy  grew 
Each  spot  where  he  had  trod, 
Till  after-poets  only  knew 
Their  first-born  brother  as  a  god. 


THE  TOKEN 


119 


THE  TOKEN 

It  is  a  mere  wild  rosebud, 

Quite  sallow  now,  and  dry, 
Yet  there 's  something  wondrous  in  it, 

Some  gleams  of  days  gone  by, 
Dear  sights  and  sounds  that  are  to  me 
The  very  moons  of  memory, 
And  stir  my  heart's  blood  far  below 
Its  short-lived  waves  of  joy  and  woe. 

Lips  must  fade  and  roses  wither, 

All  sweet  times  be  o'er  ; 
They  only  smile,  and,  murmuring  "  Thither ! 99 

Stay  with  us  no  more  : 
And  yet  of  ttimes  a  look  or  smile, 
Forgotten  in  a  kiss's  while, 
Years  after  from  the  dark  will  start, 
And  flash  across  the  trembling  heart. 

Thou  hast  given  me  many  roses, 

But  never  one,  like  this, 
O'erfloods  both  sense  and  spirit 

With  such  a  deep,  wild  bliss  ; 
We  must  have  instincts  that  glean  up 
Sparse  drops  of  this  life  in  the  cup, 
Whose  taste  shall  give  us  all  that  we 
Can  prove  of  immortality. 

Earth's  stablest  things  are  shadows, 
And,  in  the  life  to  come, 


120  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


Haply  some  chance-saved  trifle 

May  tell  of  this  old  home  : 
As  now  sometimes  we  seem  to  find, 
In  a  dark  crevice  of  the  mind, 
Some  relic,  which,  long  pondered  o'er, 
Hints  faintly  at  a  life  before. 


AN  INCIDENT  IN  A  RAILROAD  CAR 

He  spoke  of  Burns  :  men  rude  and  rough 
Pressed  round  to  hear  the  praise  of  one 
Whose  heart  was  made  of  manly,  simple  stuff, 
As  homespun  as  their  own. 

And,  when  he  read,  they  forward  leaned, 
Drinking,  with  thirsty  hearts  and  ears, 
His  brook-like  songs  whom  glory  never  weaned 
From  humble  smiles  and  tears. 

Slowly  there  grew  a  tender  awe, 
Sun-like,  o'er  faces  brown  and  hard, 
As  if  in  him  who  read  they  felt  and  saw 
Some  presence  of  the  bard. 

It  was  a  sight  for  sin  and  wrong 
And  slavish  tyranny  to  see, 
A  sight  to  make  our  faith  more  pure  and  strong 
In  high  humanity. 

I  thought,  these  men  will  carry  hence 
Promptings  their  former  life  above, 


AN  INCIDENT  IN  A  RAILROAD  CAR  121 

t 

And  something  of  a  finer  reverence 
For  beauty,  truth,  and  love. 

God  scatters  love  on  every  side 
Freely  among  his  children  all, 
And  always  hearts  are  lying  open  wide, 
Wherein  some  grains  may  fall. 

There  is  no  wind  but  soweth  seeds 
Of  a  more  true  and  open  life, 
Which  burst,  unlooked  for,  into  high-souled  deeds, 
With  wayside  beauty  rife. 

We  find  within  these  souls  of  ours 
Some  wild  germs  of  a  higher  birth, 
Which  in  the  poet's  tropic  heart  bear  flowers 
Whose  fragrance  fills  the  earth. 

Within  the  hearts  of  all  men  lie 
These  promises  of  wdder  bliss, 
Which  blossom  into  hopes  that  cannot  die, 
In  sunny  hours  like  this. 

All  that  hath  been  majestical 
In  life  or  death,  since  time  began, 
Is  native  in  the  simple  heart  of  all, 
The  angel  heart  of  man. 

And  thus,  among  the  untaught  poor, 
Great  deeds  and  feelings  find  a  home^ 
That  cast  in  shadow  all  the  golden  lore 
Of  classic  Greece  and  Rome, 


122 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


O  mighty  brother-soul  of  man, 
Where'er  thou  art,  in  low  or  high, 
Thy  skyey  arches  with  exulting  span 
O'er-roof  infinity ! 

All  thoughts  that  mould  the  age  begin 
Deep  down  within  the  primitive  soul, 
And  from  the  many  slowly  upward  win 
To  one  who  grasps  the  whole  : 

In  his  wide  brain  the  feeling  deep 
That  struggled  on  the  many's  tongue 
Swells  to  a  tide  of  thought,  whose  surges  leap 
O'er  the  weak  thrones  of  wrong. 

All  thought  begins  in  feeling,  —  wide 
In  the  great  mass  its  base  is  hid, 
And,  narrowing  up  to  thought,  stands  glorified, 
A  moveless  pyramid. 

Nor  is  he  far  astray,  who  deems 
That  every  hope,  which  rises  and  grows  broad 
In  the  world's  heart,  by  ordered  impulse  streams 
From  the  great  heart  of  God. 

God  wills,  man  hopes  :  in  common  souls 
Hope  is  but  vague  and  undefined, 
Till  from  the  poet's  tongue  the  message  rolls 
A  blessing  to  his  kind. 

Never  did  Poesy  appear 

So  full  of  heaven  to  me,  as  when 


RHCECUS 


123 


I  saw  how  it  would  pierce  through  pride  and  fear 
To  the  lives  of  coarsest  men. 

It  may  be  glorious  to  write 
Thoughts  that  shall  glad  the  two  or  three 
High  souls,  like  those  far  stars  that  come  in  sight 
Once  in  a  century  ;  — 

But  better  far  it  is  to  speak 
One  simple  word,  which  now  and  then 
Shall  waken  their  free  nature  in  the  weak 
And  friendless  sons  of  men ; 

To  write  some  earnest  verse  or  line, 
Which,  seeking  not  the  praise  of  art, 
Shall  make  a  clearer  faith  and  manhood  shine 
In  the  untutored  heart. 

He  who  doth  this,  in  verse  or  prose, 
May  be  forgotten  in  his  day, 
But  surely  shall  be  crowned  at  last  with  those 
Who  live  and  speak  for  aye. 


RHCECUS 

God  sends  his  teachers  unto  every  age, 

To  every  clime,  and  every  race  of  men, 

With  revelations  fitted  to  their  growth 

And  shape  of  mind,  nor  gives  the  realm  of  Truth 

Into  the  selfish  rule  of  one  sole  race ; 


124  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


Therefore  each  form  of  worship  that  hath  swayed 
The  life  of  man,  and  given  it  to  grasp 
The  master-key  of  knowledge,  reverence, 
Infolds  some  germs  of  goodness  and  of  right ; 
Else  never  had  the  eager  sonl,  which  loathes 
The  slothful  down  of  pampered  ignorance, 
Found  in  it  even  a  moment's  fitful  rest. 

There  is  an  instinct  in  the  human  heart 
Which  makes  that  all  the  fables  it  hath  coined, 
To  justify  the  reign  of  its  belief 
And  strengthen  it  by  beauty's  right  divine, 
Veil  in  their  inner  cells  a  mystic  gift, 
Which,  like  the  hazel  twig,  in  faithful  hands, 
Points  surely  to  the  hidden  springs  of  truth. 
For,  as  in  nature  naught  is  made  in  vain, 
But  all  things  have  within  their  hull  of  use 
A  wisdom  and  a  meaning  which  may  speak 
Of  spiritual  secrets  to  the  ear 
Of  spirit ;  so,  in  whatsoe'er  the  heart 
Hath  fashioned  for  a  solace  to  itself, 
To  make  its  inspirations  suit  its  creed, 
And  from  the  niggard  hands  of  falsehood  wring 
Its  needful  food  of  truth,  there  ever  is 
A  sympathy  with  Nature,  which  reveals, 
Not  less  than  her  own  works,  pure   gleams  o| 
light 

And  earnest  parables  of  inward  lore. 
Hear  now  this  fairy  legend  of  old  Greece, 
As  full  of  gracious  youth,  and  beauty  still 
As  the  immortal  freshness  of  that  grace 
Carved  for  all  ages  on  some  Attic  frieze. 


RHCECUS 


125 


A  youth  named  Rhoecus,  wandering  in  the  wood, 
Saw  an  old  oak  just  trembling  to  its  fall, 
And,  feeling  pity  of  so  fair  a  tree, 
He  propped  its  gray  trunk  with  admiring  care, 
And  with  a  thoughtless  footstep  loitered  on. 
But,  as  he  turned,  he  heard  a  voice  behind 
That  murmured  "  Rhoecus !  "    'T  was  as  if  the 
leaves, 

Stirred  by  a  passing  breath,  had  murmured  it, 
And,  while  he  paused  bewildered,  yet  again 
It  murmured  "  Rhoecus  !  "  softer  than  a  breeze. 
He  started  and  beheld  with  dizzy  eyes 
What  seemed  the  substance  of  a  happy  dream 
Stand  there  before  him,  spreading  a  warm  glow 
Within  the  green  glooms  of  the  shadowy  oak. 
It  seemed  a  woman's  shape,  yet  far  too  fair 
To  be  a  woman,  and  with  eyes  too  meek 
For  any  that  were  wont  to  mate  with  gods. 
All  naked  like  a  goddess  stood  she  there, 
And  like  a  goddess  all  too  beautiful 
To  feel  the  guilt-born  earthliness  of  shame. 
"Rhoecus,  I  am  the  Dryad  of  this  tree," 
Thus  she  began,  dropping  her  low-toned  words 
Serene,  and  full,  and  clear,  as  drops  of  dew, 
"  And  with  it  I  am  doomed  to  live  and  die ; 
The  rain  and  sunshine  are  my  caterers, 
Nor  have  I  other  bliss  than  simple  life ; 
Now  ask  me  what  thou  wilt,  that  I  can  give, 
And  with  a  thankful  joy  it  shall  be  thine." 

Then  Rhoecus,  with  a  flutter  at  the  heart, 
Yet,  by  the  prompting  of  such  beauty,  bold9 


126 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


Answered :  "  What  is  there  that  can  satisfy 
The  endless  craving  of  the  soul  but  love  ? 
Give  me  thy  love,  or  but  the  hope  of  that 
Which  must  be  evermore  my  nature's  goal." 
After  a  little  pause  she  said  again, 
But  with  a  glimpse  of  sadness  in  her  tone, 
"  I  give  it,  Rhcecus,  though  a  perilous  gift ; 
An  hour  before  the  sunset  meet  me  here." 
And  straightway  there  was  nothing  he  could  see 
But  the  green  glooms  beneath  the  shadowy  oak, 
And  not  a  sound  came  to  his  straining  ears 
But  the  low  trickling  rustle  of  the  leaves, 
And  far  away  upon  an  emerald  slope 
The  falter  of  an  idle  shepherd's  pipe. 

Now,  in  those  days  of  simpleness  and  faith, 
Men  did  not  think  that  happy  things  were  dreams 
Because  they  overstepped  the  narrow  bourn 
Of  likelihood,  but  reverently  deemed 
Nothing  too  wondrous  or  too  beautiful 
To  be  the  guerdon  of  a  daring  heart. 
So  Rhcecus  made  no  doubt  that  he  was  blest, 
And  all  along  unto  the  city's  gate 
Earth  seemed  to  spring  beneath  him  as  he  walked, 
The  clear,  broad  sky  looked  bluer  than  its  wont, 
And  he  could  scarce  believe  he  had  not  wings, 
Such   sunshine   seemed   to   glitter   through  his 
veins 

Instead  of  blood,  so  light  he  felt  and  strange. 

Young  Rhcecus  had  a  faithful  heart  enough, 
But  one  that  in  the  present  dwelt  too  much. 


RE  (EC  US 


127 


And,  taking  with  blithe  welcome  whatsoe'er 

Chance  gave  of  joy,  was  wholly  bound  in  that, 

liike  the  contented  peasant  of  a  vale, 

Deemed  it  the  world,  and  never  looked  beyond. 

So,  haply  meeting  in  the  afternoon 

Some  comrades  who  were  playing  at  the  dice, 

He  joined  them,  and  forgot  all  else  beside. 

The  dice  were  rattling  at  the  merriest, 
And  Ehoecus,  who  had  met  but  sorry  luck, 
Just  laughed  in  triumph  at  a  happy  throw, 
When  through  the  room  there  hummed  a  yellow 
bee 

That  buzzed  about  his  ear  with  down-dropped  legs 
As  if  to  light.    And  Ehoecus  laughed  and  said, 
Feeling  how  red  and  flushed  he  was  with  loss, 
"  By  Venus  !  does  he  take  me  for  a  rose  ?  " 
And  brushed  him  off  with  rough,  impatient  hand. 
But  still  the  bee  came  back,  and  thrice  again 
Ehcecus  did  beat  him  off  with  growing  wrath. 
Then  through  the  window  flew  the  wounded  bee, 
And  Ehcecus,  tracking  him  with  angry  eyes, 
Saw  a  sharp  mountain-peak  of  Thessaly 
Against  the  red  disk  of  the  setting  sun,  — 
And  instantly  the  blood  sank  from  his  heart, 
As  if  its  very  walls  had  caved  away. 
Without  a  word  he  turned,  and,  rushing  forth, 
Ean  madly  through  the  city  and  the  gate, 
And  o'er  the  plain,  which  now  the  wood's  long 
shade, 

By  the  low  sun  thrown  forward  broad  and  dim, 
Darkened  wellnigh  unto  the  city's  wall. 


128 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


Quite  spent  and  out  of  breath  he  reached  the 
tree, 

And,  listening  fearfully,  he  heard  once  more 
The  low  voice  murmur  "  Rhoscus  !  "  close  at  hand  : 
Whereat  he  looked  around  him,  but  could  see 
Naught  but  the  deepening  glooms  beneath  the 
oak. 

Then  sighed  the  voice,  "  O  Rhoecus  !  nevermore 

Shalt  thou  behold  me  or  by  day  or  night, 

Me,  who  would  fain  have  blessed  thee  with  a  love 

More  ripe  and  bounteous  than  ever  yet 

Filled  up  with  nectar  any  mortal  heart : 

But  thou  didst  scorn  my  humble  messenger, 

And  sent'st  him  back  to  me  with  bruised  wings. 

We  spirits  only  show  to  gentle  eyes, 

We  ever  ask  an  undivided  love, 

And  he  who  scorns  the  least  of  Nature's  works 

Is  thenceforth  exiled  and  shut  out  from  all. 

Farewell !  for  thou  canst  never  see  me  more." 

Then  Rhoecus  beat  his  breast,  and  groaned  aloud, 
And  cried,  "  Be  pitiful !  forgive  me  yet 
This  once,  and  I  shall  never  need  it  more !  " 
"  Alas  !  "  the  voice  returned,  " 't  is  thou  art  blind, 
Not  I  unmerciful ;  I  can  forgive, 
But  have  no  skill  to  heal  thy  spirit's  eyes ; 
Only  the  soul  hath  power  o'er  itself." 
With  that  again  there  murmured  "  Nevermore  !  " 
And  Rhoecus  after  heard  no  other  sound, 
Except  the  rattling  of  the  oak's  crisp  leaves, 
Like  the  long  surf  upon  a  distant  shore, 
Raking  the  sea-worn  pebbles  up  and  down. 


THE  FALCON 


129 


The  night  had  gathered  round  him :  o'er  the  plain 
The  city  sparkled  with  its  thousand  lights, 
And  sounds  of  revel  fell  upon  his  ear 
Harshly  and  like  a  curse ;  above,  the  sky, 
With  all  its  bright  sublimity  of  stars, 
Deepened,  and  on  his  forehead  smote  the  breeze : 
Beauty  was  all  around  him  and  delight, 
But  from  that  eve  he  was  alone  on  earth. 


THE  FALCON 

I  KNOW  a  falcon  swift  and  peerless 
As  e'er  was  cradled  in  the  pine ; 

No  bird  had  ever  eye  so  fearless, 
Or  wing  so  strong  as  this  of  mine. 

The  winds  not  better  love  to  pilot 
A  cloud  with  molten  gold  o'errun, 

Than  him,  a  little  burning  islet, 
A  star  above  the  coming  sun. 

For  with  a  lark's  heart  he  doth  tower, 
By  a  glorious  upward  instinct  drawn  ; 

No  bee  nestles  deeper  in  the  flower 
Than  he  in  the  bursting  rose  of  dawn. 

No  harmless  dove,  no  bird  that  singe th, 
Shudders  to  see  him  overhead  ; 

The  rush  of  his  fierce  swooping  bringeth 
To  innocent  hearts  no  thrill  of  dread. 


130  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


Let  fraud  and  wrong  and  baseness  shiver, 
For  still  between  them  and  the  sky 

The  falcon  Truth  hangs  poised  forever 
And  marks  them  with  his  vengeful  eye. 

TRIAL 
I. 

Whether  the  idle  prisoner  through  his  grate 
Watches  the  waving  of  the  grass-tuft  small, 
Which,  having  colonized  its  rift  i'  th'  wall, 
Accepts  God's  dole  of  good  or  evil  fate, 
And  from  the  sky's  just  helmet  draws  its  lot 
Daily  of  shower  or  sunshine,  cold  or  hot ;  — 
Whether  the  closer  captive  of  a  creed, 
Cooped  up  from  birth  to  grind  out  endless  chaff, 
Sees  through  his  treadmill-bars  the  noonday  laugh, 
And  feels  in  vain  his  crumpled  pinions  breed ;  — 
Whether  the  Georgian  slave  look  up  and  mark, 
With  bellying  sails  puffed  full,  the  tall  cloud-bark 
Sink  northward  slowly,  —  thou  alone  seem'st  good, 
Fair  only  thou,  O  Freedom,  whose  desire 
Can  light  in  muddiest  souls  quick  seeds  of  fire, 
And  strain  life's  chords  to  the  old  heroic  mood. 

II. 

Yet  are  there  other  gifts  more  fair  than  thine, 
Nor  can  I  count  him  happiest  who  has  never 
Been  forced  with  his  own  hand  his  chains  to  sever, 
And  for  himself  find  out  the  way  divine ; 
He  never  knew  the  aspirer's  glorious  pains, 


A  GLANCE  BEHIND  THE  CUE  TAIN  131 


He  never  earned  the  struggle's  priceless  gains. 

Oh,  block  by  block,  with  sore  and  sharp  endeavor, 

Lifelong  we  build  these  human  natures  up 

Into  a  temple  fit  for  Freedom's  shrine, 

And  Trial  ever  consecrates  the  cup 

W  herefrom  we  pour  her  sacrificial  wine. 


A  GLANCE  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN 

We  see  but  half  the  causes  of  our  deeds, 

Seeking  them  wholly  in  the  outer  life, 

And  heedless  of  the  encircling  spirit-world, 

Which,  though  unseen,  is  felt,  and  sows  in  us 

All  germs  of  pure  and  world-wide  purposes. 

From  one  stage  of  our  being  to  the  next 

We  pass  unconscious  o'er  a  slender  bridge, 

The  momentary  work  of  unseen  hands, 

Which  crumbles  down  behind  us  ;  looking  back, 

We  see  the  other  shore,  the  gulf  between, 

And,  marvelling  how  we  won  to  where  we  stand, 

Content  ourselves  to  call  the  builder  Chance. 

We  trace  the  wisdom  to  the  apple's  fall, 

Not  to  the  birth-throes  of  a  mighty  Truth 

Which,  for  long  ages  in  blank  Chaos  dumb, 

Yet  yearned  to  be  incarnate,  and  had  found 

At  last  a  spirit  meet  to  be  the  womb 

From  which  it  might  be  born  to  bless  mankind,  — 

Not  to  the  soul  of  Newton,  ripe  with  all 

The  hoarded  thoughtfulness  of  earnest  years, 

And  waiting  but  one  ray  of  sunlight  more 

To  blossom  fully. 


132 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


But  whence  came  that  ray? 
We  call  our  sorrows  Destiny,  but  ought 
Rather  to  name  our  high  successes  so. 
Only  the  instincts  of  great  souls  are  Fate, 
And  have  predestined  sway  :  all  other  things, 
Except  by  leave  of  us,  could  never  be. 
For  Destiny  is  but  the  breath  of  God 
Still  moving^  in  us,  the  last  fragment  left 
Of  our  unfallen  nature,  waking  oft 
Within  our  thought,  to  beckon  us  beyond 
The  narrow  circle  of  the  seen  and  known, 
And  always  tending  to  a  noble  end, 
As  all  things  must  that  overrule  the  soul, 
And  for  a  space  unseat  the  helmsman,  Will. 
The  fate  of  England  and  of  freedom  once 
Seemed  wavering  in  the  heart  of  one  plain  man : 
One  step  of  his,  and  the  great  dial-hand, 
That  marks  the  destined  progress  of  the  world 
In  the  eternal  round  from  wisdom  on 
To  higher  wisdom,  had  been  made  to  pause 
A  hundred  years.    That  step  he  did  not  take,  — 
He  knew  not  why,  nor  we,  but  only  God,  — 
And  lived  to  make  his  simple  oaken  chair 
More  terrible  and  soberly  august, 
More  full  of  majesty  than  any  throne, 
Before  or  after,  of  a  British  king. 

Upon  the  pier  stood  two  stern-visaged  men, 
Looking  to  where  a  little  craft  lay  moored, 
Swayed  by  the  lazy  current  of  the  Thames, 
Which  weltered  by  in  muddy  listlessness. 
Grave  men  they  were,  and   battlings  of  fierce 
thought 


A  GLANCE  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN  133 


Had  trampled  out  all  softness  from  their  brows, 
And  ploughed  rough  furrows  there  before  their 
time, 

For  other  crop  than  such  as  homebred  Peace 
Sows  broadcast  in  the  willing  soil  of  Youth. 
Care,  not  of  self,  but  for  the  common-weal, 
Had  robbed  their  eyes  of  youth,  and^eft  instead 
A  look  of  patient  power  and  iron  will, 
And  something  fiercer,  too,  that  gave  broad  hint 
Of  the  plain  weapons  girded  at  their  sides. 
The  younger  had  an  aspect  of  command,  — 
Not  such  as  trickles  down,  a  slender  stream, 
Tn  the  shrunk  ehannel  of  a  great  descent, 
But  such  as  lies  entowered  in  heart  and  head, 
And  an  arm  prompt  to  do  the  'hests  of  both. 
His  was  a  brow  where  gold  were  out  of  place, 
And  yet  it  seemed  right  worthy  of  a  crown 
(Though  he  despised  such),  were  it  only  made 
Of  iron,  or  some  serviceable  stuff 
That  would  have  matched  his  brownly  rugged 
face. 

The  elder,  although  such  he  hardly  seemed 
(Care  makes  so  little  of  some  five  short  years), 
Had   a   clear,   honest   face,   whose  rough-hewn 
strength 

Was  mildened  by  the  scholar's  wiser  heart 
To  sober  courage,  such  as  best  befits 
The  unsullied  temper  of  a  well-taught  mind, 
Yet  so  remained  that  one  could  plainly  guess 
The  hushed  volcano  smouldering  underneath. 
He  spoke :  the  other,  hearing,  kept  his  gaze 
Still  fixed,  as  on  some  problem  in  the  sky. 


134 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


"  O  Cromwell,  we  are  fallen  on  evil  times  ! 
There  was  a  day  when  England  had  wide  room 
For  honest  men  as  well  as  foolish  kings  : 
But  now  the  uneasy  stomach  of  the  time 
Turns  squeamish  at  them  both.    Therefore  let  us 
Seek  out  that  savage  clime,  where  men  as  yet 
Are  free  :  there  sleeps  the  vessel  on  the  tide, 
Her  languid  canvas  drooping  for  the  wind ; 
Give  us  but  that,  and  what  need  we  to  fear 
This  Order  of  the  Council  ?    The  free  waves 
Will  not  say  No  to  please  a  wayward  king, 
Nor  will  the  winds  turn  traitors  at  his  beck  : 
All  things  are  fitly  cared  for,  and  the  Lord 
Will  watch  as  kindly  o'er  the  exodus 
Of  us  his  servants  now,  as  in  old  time. 
We  have  no  cloud  or  fire,  and  haply  we 
May  not  pass  dry-shod  through  the  ocean-stream ; 
But,  saved  or  lost,  all  things  are  in  His  hand." 
So  spake  he,  and  meantime  the  other  stood 
With  wide  gray  eyes  still  reading  the  blank  air, 
As  if  upon  the  sky's  blue  wall  he  saw 
Some  mystic  sentence,  written  by  a  hand, 
Such  as  of  old  made  pale  the  Assyrian  king, 
Girt  with  his  satraps  in  the  blazing  feast. 

"  Hampden  !  a  moment  since,  my  purpose  was 
To  fly  with  thee,  —  for  I  will  call  it  flight, 
Nor  flatter  it  with  any  smoother  name,  — 
But  something  in  me  bids  me  not  to  go ; 
And  I  am  one,  thou  knowest,  who,  unmoved 
By  what  the  weak  deem  omens,  yet  give  heed 
And  reverence  due  to  whatsoe'er  my  soul 


A  GLANCE  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN  135 


Whispers  of  warning  to  the  inner  ear. 
Moreover,  as  I  know  that  God  brings  round 
His  purposes  in  ways  undreamed  by  us, 
And  makes  the  wicked  but  his  instruments 
To  hasten  their  own  swift  and  sudden  fall, 
I  see  the  beauty  of  his  providence 
In  the  King's  order  :  blind,  he  will  not  let 
His  doom  part  from  him,  but  must  bid  it  stay 
As  't  were  a  cricket,  whose  enlivening  chirp 
He  loved  to  hear  beneath  his  very  hearth. 
Why  should  we  fly  ?    Nay,  why  not  rather  stay 
And  rear  again  our  Zion's  crumbled  walls, 
Not,  as  of  old  the  walls  of  Thebes  were  built, 
By  minstrel  twanging,  but,  if  need  should  be, 
With  the  more  potent  music  of  our  swords  ? 
Think'st  thou  that  score  of  men  beyond  the  sea 
Claim  more  God's  care  than  all  of  England  here? 
No :  when  He  moves  His  arm,  it  is  to  aid 
Whole  peoples,  heedless  if  a  few  be  crushed, 
As  some  are  ever,  when  the  destiny 
Of  man  takes  one  stride  onward  nearer  home. 
Believe  me,  't  is  the  mass  of  men  He  loves ; 
And,  where  there  is  most  sorrow  and  most  want, 
Where  the  high  heart  of  man  is  trodden  down 
The  most,  't  is  not  because  He  hides  His  face 
From  them  in  wrath,  as  purblind  teachers  prate  : 
Not  so :  there  most  is  He,  for  there  is  He 
Most  needed.    Men  who  seek  for  Fate  abroad 
Are  not  so  near  His  heart  as  they  who  dare 
Frankly  to  face  her  where  she  faces  them, 
On  their  own  threshold,  where  their  souls  are 
strong 


136  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


To  grapple  with  and  throw  her ;  as  I  once, 
Being  yet  a  boy,  did  cast  this  puny  king, 
Who  now  has  grown  so  dotard  as  to  deem 
That  he  can  wrestle  with  an  angry  realm, 
And  throw  the  brawned  Antaeus  of  men's  rights. 
No,  Hampden !    they  have  half  -  way  conquered 
Fate 

Who  go  half-way  to  meet  her,  —  as  will  I. 
Freedom  hath  yet  a  work  for  me  to  do ; 
So  speaks  that  inward  voice  which  never  yet 
Spake  falsely,  when  it  urged  the  spirit  on 
To  noble  emprise  for  country  and  mankind. 
And,  for  success,  I  ask  no  more  than  this,  — 
To  bear  unflinching  witness  to  the  truth. 
All  true  whole  men  succeed ;  for  what  is  worth 
Success's  name,  unless  it  be  the  thought, 
The  inward  surety,  to  have  carried  out 
A  noble  purpose  to  a, noble  end, 
Although  it  be  the  gallows  or  the  block  ? 
'T  is  only  Falsehood  that  doth  ever  need 
These  outward  shows  of  gain  to  bolster  her. 
Be  it  we  prove  the  weaker  with  our  swords  ; 
Truth  only  needs  to  be  for  once  spoke  out, 
And   there 's  such  music  in   her,  such  strange 
rhythm, 

As  makes  men's  memories  her  joyous  slaves, 
And  clings  around  the  soul,  as  the  sky  clings 
Round  the  mute  earth,  forever  beautiful, 
And,  if  o'erclouded,  only  to  burst  forth 
More  all-embracingly  divine  and  clear : 
Get  but  the  truth  once  uttered,  and 't  is  like 
A  star  new-born,  that  drops  into  its  place, 


A  GLANCE  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN  137 

And  which,  once  circling  in  its  placid  round, 
Not  all  the  tumult  of  the  earth  can  shake. 

"  What  should  we  do  in  that  small  colony 
Of  pinched  fanatics,  who  would  rather  choose 
Freedom  to  clip  an  inch  more  from  their  hair, 
Than  the  great  chance  of  setting  England  free  ? 
Not  there,  amid  the  stormy  wilderness, 
Should  we  learn  wisdom  ;  or  if  learned,  what  room 
To  put  it  into  act,  —  else  worse  than  naught  ? 
We  learn  our  souls  more,  tossing  for  an  hour 
Upon  this  huge  and  ever-vexed  sea 
Of  human  thought,  where  kingdoms  go  to  wreck 
Like  fragile  bubbles  yonder  in  the  stream, 
Than  in  a  cycle  of  New  England  sloth, 
Broke  only  by  a  petty  Indian  war, 
Or  quarrel  for  a  letter  more  or  less  v 
In  some  hard  word,  which,  spelt  in  either  way, 
Not  their  most  learned  clerks  can  understand. 
New  times  demand  new  measures  and  new  men ; 
The  world  advances,  and  in  time  outgrows 
The  laws  that  in  our  fathers'  day  were  best ; 
And,  doubtless,  after  us,  some  purer  scheme 
Will  be  shaped  out  by  wiser  men  than  we, 
Made  wiser  by  the  steady  growth  of  truth. 
We  cannot  hale  Utopia  on  by  force ; 
But  better,  almost,  be  at  work  in  sin, 
Than  in  a  brute  inaction  browse  and  sleep. 
No  man  is  born  into  the  world  whose  work 
Is  not  born  with  him ;  there  is  always  work, 
And  tools  to  w7ork  withal,  for  those  who  wrill ; 
And  blessed  are  the  horny  hands  of  toil ! 


138  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

The  busy  world  shoves  angrily  aside 
The  man  who  stands  with  arms  akimbo  set> 
Until  occasion  tells  him  what  to  do ; 
And  he  who  waits  to  have  his  task  marked  out 
Shall  die  and  leave  his  errand  unfulfilled. 
Our  time  is  one  that  calls  for  earnest  deeds : 
Reason  and  Government,  like  two  broad  seas, 
Yearn  for  each  other  with  outstretched  arms 
Across  this  narrow  isthmus  of  the  throne, 
And  roll  their  white  surf  higher  every  day. 
One  age  moves  onward,  and  the  next  builds  up 
Cities  and  gorgeous  palaces,  where  stood 
The  rude  log-huts  of  those  who  tamed  the  wild, 
Rearing  from  out  the  forests  they  had  felled 
The  goodly  framework  of  a  fairer  state ; 
The  builder's  trowel  and  the  settler's  axe 
Are  seldom  wielded  by  the  selfsame  hand ; 
Ours  is  the  harder  task,  yet  not  the  less 
Shall  we  receive  the  blessing  for  our  toil 
From  the  choice  spirits  of  the  aftertime. 
My  soul  is  not  a  palace  of  the  past, 
Where  outworn  creeds,  like  Rome's  gray  senate, 
quake, 

Hearing  afar  the  Vandal's  trumpet  hoarse, 
That  shakes  old  systems  with  a  thunder-fit. 
The  time  is  ripe,  and  rotten-ripe,  for  change ; 
Then  let  it  come :  I  have  no  dread  of  what 
Is  called  for  by  the  instinct  of  mankind ; 
Nor  think  I  that  God's  world  will  fall  apart 
Because  we  tear  a  parchment  more  or  less. 
Truth  is  eternal,  but  her  effluence, 
With  endless  change,  is  fitted  to  the  hour ; 


A  GLANCE  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN  139 


Her  mirror  is  turned  forward  to  reflect 
The  promise  of  the  future,  not  the  past. 
He  who  would  win  the  name  of  truly  great 
Must  understand  his  own  age  and  the  next, 
And  make  the  present  ready  to  fulfil 
Its  prophecy,  and  with  the  future  merge 
Gently  and  peacefully,  as  wave  with  wave. 
The  future  works  out  great  men's  purposes ; 
The  present  is  enough  for  common  souls, 
Who,  never  looking  forward,  are  indeed 
Mere  clay,  wherein  the  footprints  of  their  age 
Are  petrified  forever :  better  those 
Who  lead  the  blind  old  giant  by  the  hand 
From  out  the  pathless  desert  where  he  gropes, 
And  set  him  onward  in  his  darksome  way. 
I  do  not  fear  to  follow  out  the  truth, 
Albeit  along  the  precipice's  edge. 
Let  us  speak  plain :  there  is  more  force  in  names 
Than  most  men  dream  of ;  and  a  lie  may  keep 
Its  throne  a  whole  age  longer,  if  it  skulk 
Behind  the  shield  of  some  fair-seeming  name. 
Let  us  call  tyrants  tyrants,  and  maintain 
That  only  freedom  comes  by  grace  of  God, 
And  all  that  comes  not  by  His  grace  must  fall ; 
For  men  in  earnest  have  no  time  to  waste 
In  patching  fig-leaves  for  the  naked  truth. 

"  I  will  have  one  more  grapple  with  the  man 
Charles  Stuart :  whom  the  boy  o'ercame, 
The  man  stands  not  in  awe  of.    I,  perchance, 
Am  one  raised  up  by  the  Almighty  arm 
To  witness  some  great  truth  to  all  the  world. 


140 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


Souls  destined  to  o'erleap  the  vulgar  lot, 
And  mould  the  world  unto  the  scheme  of  God, 
Have  a  fore-consciousness  of  their  high  doom, 
As  men  are  known  to  shiver  at  the  heart 
When  the  cold  shadow  of  some  coming  ill 
Creeps  slowly  o'er  their  spirits  unawares. 
Hath  Good  less  power  of  prophecy  than  111  ? 
How  else  could  men  whom  God  hath  called  to 
sway 

Earth's  rudder,  and  to  steer  the  bark  of  Truth, 

Beating  against  the  tempest  tow'rd  her  port, 

Bear  all  the  mean  and  buzzing  grievances, 

The  petty  martyrdoms,  wherewith  Sin  strives 

To  weary  out  the  tethered  hope  of  Faith  ? 

The  srieers,  the  unrecognizing  look  of  friends, 

Who  worship  the  dead  corpse  of  old  king  Custom, 

Where  it  doth  lie  in  state  within  the  Church, 

Striving  to  cover  up  the  mighty  ocean 

With  a  man's  palm,  and  making  even  the  truth 

Lie  for  them,  holding  up  the  glass  reversed, 

To  make  the  hope  of  man  seem  farther  off  ? 

My  God  !  when  I  read  o'er  the  bitter  lives 

Of  men  whose  eager  hearts  were  quite  too  great 

To  beat  beneath  the  cramped  mode  of  the  day, 

And  see  them  mocked  at  by  the  world  they  love, 

Haggling  with  prejudice  for  pennyworths 

Of  that  reform  which  their  hard  toil  will  make 

The  common  birthright  of  the  age  to  come,  — 

When  I  see  this,  spite  of  my  faith  in  God, 

I  marvel  how  their  hearts  bear  up  so  long ; 

Nor  could  they  but  for  this  same  prophecy, 

This  inward  feeling  of  the  glorious  end. 


A  GLANCE  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN  141 

"  Deem  me  not  fond  ;  but  in  my  warmer  youth, 
Ere  my  heart's  bloom  was  soiled  and  brushed  away, 
I  had  great  dreams  of  mighty  things  to  come  ; 
Of  conquest,  whether  by  the  sword  or  pen 
I  knew  not ;  but  some  conquest  I  would  have, 
Or  else  swift  death :  now  wiser  grown  in  years, 
I  find  youth's  dreams  are  but  the  fluttering^ 
Of  those  strong  wings  whereon  the  soul  shall  soar 
In  after  time  to  win  a  starry  throne  ; 
And  so  I  cherish  them,  for  they  were  lots, 
Which  I,  a  boy,  cast  in  the  helm  of  Fate. 
Now  will  I  draw  tbem,  since  a  man's  right  hand, 
A  right  hand  guided  by  an  earnest  soul, 
With  a  true  instinct,  takes  the  golden  prize 
From  out  a  thousand  blanks.    What  men  call  luck 
Is  the  prerogative  of  valiant  souls, 
The  fealty  life  pays  its  rightful  kings. 
The  helm  is  shaking  now,  and  I  will  stay 
To  pluck  my  lot  forth  ;  it  were  sin  to  flee  !  " 

So  they  two  turned  together ;  one  to  die, 
Fighting  for  freedom  on  the  bloody  field ; 
The  other,  far  more  happy,  to  become 
A  name  earth  wears  forever  next  her  heart ; 
One  of  the  few  that  have  a  right  to  rank 
With  the  true  Makers  :  for  his  spirit  wrought 
Order  from  Chaos  ;  proved  that  right  divine 
Dwelt  only  in  the  excellence  of  truth ; 
And  far  within  old  Darkness'  hostile  lines 
Advanced  and  pitched  the  shining  tents  of  Light. 
Nor  shall  the  grateful  Muse  forget  to  tell, 
That  —  not  the  least  among  his  many  claims 


142  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


To  deathless  honor  —  he  was  Milton's  friend, 
A  man  not  second  among  those  who  lived 
To  show  us  that  the  poet's  lyre  demands 
An  arm  of  tougher  sinew  than  the  sword. 


A  CHIPPEWA  LEGEND 1 

aXyciva  jueV  fxoi  pcou  Aeyeiv  early  ra&e, 
aAy(>9  Se  aiyav. 

^schylus,  Prom.  Vinct.  197,  198. 

The  old  Chief,  feeling  now  wellnigh  his  end, 
Called  his  two  eldest  children  to  his  side, 
And  gave  them,  in  few  words,  his  parting  charge  ! 
"  My  son  and  daughter,  me  ye  see  no  more ; 
The  happy  hunting-grounds  await  me,  green 
With  change  of  spring  and  summer  through  the 
year : 

But,  for  remembrance,  after  I  am  gone, 
Be  kind  to  little  Sheemah  for  my  sake  : 
Weakling  he  is  and  young,  and  knows  not  yet 
To  set  the  trap,  or  draw  the  seasoned  bow ; 
Therefore  of  both  your  loves  he  hath  more  need, 
And  he,  who  needeth  love,  to  love  hath  right ; 
It  is  not  like  our  furs  and  stores  of  corn, 
Whereto  we  claim  sole  title  by  our  toil, 
But  the  Great  Spirit  plants  it  in  our  hearts, 
And  waters  it,  and  gives  it  sun,  to  be 
The  common  stock  and  heritage  of  all : 
Therefore  be  kind  to  Sheemah,  that  yourselves 
May  not  be  left  deserted  in  your  need." 

1  For  the  leading  incidents  in  this  tale  I  am  indebted  to  the 
very  valuable  Algic  Researches  of  Henry  R.  Schoolcraft,  Esq. 


A  CHIPPEWA  LEGEND 


143 


Alone,  beside  a  lake,  their  wigwam  stood, 
Far  from  the  other  dwellings  of  their  tribe  ; 
And,  after  many  moons,  the  loneliness 
Wearied  the  elder  brother,  and  he  said, 
1  Why  should  I  dwell  here  far  from  men,  shut  out 
From  the  free,  natural  joys  that  fit  my  age  ? 
Lo,  I  am  tall  and  strong,  well  skilled  to  hunt, 
Patient  of  toil  and  hunger,  and  not  yet 
Have  seen  the  danger  which  I  dared  not  look 
Full  in  the  face  ;  what  hinders  me  to  be 
A  mighty  Brave  and  Chief  among  my  kin  ?  " 
So,  taking  up  his  arrows  and  his  bow, 
As  if  to  hunt,  he  journeyed  swiftly  on, 
Until  he  gained  the  wigwams  of  his  tribe, 
Where,  choosing  out  a  bride,  he  soon  forgot, 
In  all  the  fret  and  bustle  of  new  life, 
The  little  Sheemah  and  his  father's  charge. 

Now  when  the  sister  found  her  brother  gone, 
And  that,  for  many  days,  he  came  not  back, 
She  wept  for  Sheemah  more  than  for  herself ; 
For  Love  bides  longest  in  a  woman's  heart, 
And  flutters  many  times  before  he  flies, 
And  then  doth  perch  so  nearly,  that  a  word 
May  lure  him  back  to  his  accustomed  nest ; 
And  Duty  lingers  even  when  Love  is  gone, 
Oft  looking  out  in  hope  of  his  return  ; 
And,  after  Duty  hath  been  driven  forth, 
Then  Selfishness  creeps  in  the  last  of  all, 
Warming  her  lean  hands  at  the  lonely  hearth, 
And  crouching  o'er  the  embers,  to  shut  out 
Whatever  paltry  warmth  and  light  are  left, 


144 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


With  avaricious  greed,  from  all  beside. 
So,  for  long  months,  the  sister  hunted  wide, 
And  cared  for  little  Sheemah  tenderly  ; 
But,  daily  more  and  more,  the  loneliness 
Grew  wearisome,  and  to  herself  she  sighed, 
"  Am  I  not  fair?  at  least  the  glassy  pool, 
That  hath  no  cause  to  flatter,  tells  me  so  ; 
But,  oh,  how  flat  and  meaningless  the  tale, 
Unless  it  tremble  on  a  lover's  tongue  ! 
Beauty  hath  no  true  glass,  except  it  be 
In  the  sweet  privacy  of  loving  eyes." 
Thus  deemed  she  idly,  and  forgot  the  lore 
Which  she  had  learned  of  nature  and  the  woods, 
That  beauty's  chief  reward  is  to  itself, 
And  that  Love's  mirror  holds  no  image  long 
Save  of  the  inward  fairness,  blurred  and  lost 
Unless  kept  clear  and  white  by  Duty's  care. 
So  she  went  forth  and  sought  the  haunts  of  men, 
And,  being  wedded,  in  her  household  cares, 
Soon,  like  the  elder  brother,  quite  forgot 
The  little  Sheemah  and  her  father's  charge. 

But  Sheemah,  left  alone  within  the  lodge, 
Waited  and  waited,  with  a  shrinking  heart, 
Thinking  each  rustle  was  his  sister's  step, 
Till  hope  grew  less  and  less,  and  then  went  out, 
And  every  sound  was  changed  from  hope  to  fear. 
Few  sounds  there  were  :  —  the  dropping  of  a  nut, 
The  squirrel's  chirrup,  and  the  jay's  harsh  scream, 
Autumn's  sad  remnants  of  blithe  Summer's  cheer, 
Heard  at  long  intervals,  seemed  but  to  make 
The  dreadful  void  of  silence  silenter. 


A  CHIPPEWA  LEGEND 


145 


Soon  what  small  store  his  sister  left  was  gone, 
And,  through  the  Autumn,  he  made  shift  to  live 
On  roots  and  berries,  gathered  in  much  fear 
Of  wolves,  whose  ghastly  howl  he  heard  ofttimes, 
Hollow  and  hungry,  at  the  dead  of  night. 
But  Winter  came  at  last,  and,  when  the  snow, 
Thick-heaped  for  gleaming  leagues  o'er  hill  and 
plain, 

Spread  its  unbroken  silence  over  all, 
Made  bold  by  hunger,  he  was  fain  to  glean 
(More  sick  at  heart  than  Ruth,  and  all  alone) 
After  the  harvest  of  the  merciless  wolf, 
Grim  Boaz,  who,  sharp -ribbed  and  gaunt,  yet 
feared 

A  thing  more  wild  and  starving  than  himself ; 
Till,  by  degrees,  the  wolf  and  he  grew  friends, 
And  shared  together  all  the  winter  through. 

Late  in  the  Spring,  when  all  the  ice  was  gone, 
The  elder  brother,  fishing  in  the  lake, 
Upon  whose  edge  his  father's  wigwam  stood, 
Heard  a  low  moaning  noise  upon  the  shore : 
Half  like  a  child  it  seemed,  half  like  a  wolf, 
And  straightway  there  was  something  in  his  heart 
That  said,  "  It  is  thy  brother  Sheemah's  voice." 
So,  paddling  swiftly  to  the  bank,  he  saw, 
Within  a  little  thicket  close  at  hand, 
A  child  that  seemed  fast  changing  to  a  wolf, 
From  the  neck  downward,  gray  with  shaggy  hair, 
That  still  crept  on  and  upward  as  he  looked. 
The  face  was  turned  away,  but  well  he  knew 
That  it  was  Sheemah's,  even  his  brother's  face, 


146  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


Then  with  his  trembling  hands  he  hid  his  eyes, 
And  bowed  his  head,  so  that  he  might  not  see 
The  first  look  of  his  brother's  eyes,  and  cried, 
"  O  She emah !  O  my  brother,  speak  to  me ! 
Dost  thou  not  know  me,  that  I  am  thy  brother? 
Come  to  me,  little  Sheemah,  thou  shalt  dwell 
With  me  henceforth,  and  know  no  care  or  want 
Sheemah  was  silent  for  a  space,  as  if 
'T  were  hard  to  summon  up  a  human  voice, 
And,  when  he  spake,  the  voice  was  as  a  wolf's : 
"  I  know  thee  not,  nor  art  thou  what  thou  say'st 
I  have  none  other  brethren  than  the  wolves, 
And,  till  thy  heart  be  changed  from  what  it  is, 
Thou  art  not  worthy  to  be  called  their  kin." 
Then  groaned  the  other,  with  a  choking  tongue, 
"  Alas  !  my  heart  is  changed  right  bitterly ; 
'T  is  shrunk  and  parched  within  me  even  now ! " 
And,  looking  upward  fearfully,  he  saw 
Only  a  wolf  that  shrank  away  and  ran, 
Ugly  and  fierce,  to  hide  among  the  woods. 


STANZAS  ON  FREEDOM 

Men  !  whose  boast  it  is  that  ye 
Come  of  fathers  brave  and  free, 
If  there  breathe  on  earth  a  slave, 
Are  ye  truly  free  and  brave  ? 
If  ye  do  not  feel  the  chain, 
When  it  works  a  brother's  pain, 
Are  ye  not  base  slaves  indeed, 
Slaves  unworthy  to  be  freed  ? 


STANZAS  ON  FREEDOM 


Women !  who  shall  one  day  bear 
Sons  to  breathe  New  England  air, 
If  ye  hear,  without  a  blush, 
Deeds  to  make  the  roused  blood  rush 
Like  red  lava  through  your  veins, 
For  your  sisters  now  in  chains,  — 
Answer  !  are  ye  fit  to  be 
Mothers  of  the  brave  and  free  ? 

Is  true  Freedom  but  to  break 
Fetters  for  our  own  dear  sake, 
And,  with  leathern  hearts,  forget 
That  we  owe  mankind  a  debt  ? 
No  !  true  freedom  is  to  share 
All  the  chains  our  brothers  wear, 
And,  with  heart  and  hand,  to  be 
Earnest  to  make  others  free  ! 

They  are  slaves  who  fear  to  speak 
For  the  fallen  and  the  weak ; 
They  are  slaves  who  will  not  choose 
Hatred,  scoffing,  and  abuse, 
Rather  than  in  silence  shrink 
From  the  truth  they  needs  must  think 
They  are  slaves  who  dare  not  be 
In  the  right  with  two  or  three. 


148  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


COLUMBUS 

The  cordage  creaks  and  rattles  in  the  wind, 
With  whims  of  sudden  hush  ;  the  reeling  sea 
Now  thumps  like  solid  rock  beneath  the  stern, 
Now  leaps  with  clumsy  wrath,  strikes  short,  and, 
falling 

Crumbled  to  whispery  foam,  slips  rustling  down 
The  broad  backs  of  the  waves,  which  jostle  and 
crowd 

To  fling  themselves  upon  that  unknown  shore, 
Their  used  familiar  since  the  dawn  of  time, 
Whither  this  foredoomed  life  is  guided  on 
To  sway  on  triumph's  hushed,  aspiring  poise 
One  glittering  moment,  then  to  break  fulfilled. 

How  lonely  is  the  sea's  perpetual  swing, 
The  melancholy  wash  of  endless  waves, 
The  sigh  of  some  grim  monster  undescried, 
Fear-painted  on  the  canvas  of  the  dark, 
Shifting  on  his  uneasy  pillow  of  brine ! 
Yet  night  brings  more  companions  than  the  day 
To  this  drear  waste  ;  new  constellations  burn, 
And  fairer  stars,  with  whose  calm  height  my  soul 
Finds  nearer  sympathy  than  with  my  herd 
Of  earthen  souls,  whose  vision's  scanty  ring 
Makes  me  its  prisoner  to  beat  my  wings 
Against  the  cold  bars  of  their  unbelief, 
Knowing  in  vain  my  own  free  heaven  beyond. 
O  God !  this  world,  so  crammed  with  eager  life, 
That  comes  and  goes  and  wanders  back  to  silence 


COLUMBUS 


149 


Like  the  idle  wind,  which  yet  man's  shaping  mind 
Can  make  his  drudge  to  swell  the  longing  sails 
Of  highest  endeavor,  —  this  mad,  unthrift  world, 
Which,  every  hour,  throws  life  enough  away 
To  make  her  deserts  kind  and  hospitable, 
Lets  her  great  destinies  be  wraved  aside 
By  smooth,  lip-reverent,  formal  infidels, 
Who  weigh  the  God  they  not  believe  with  gold, 
And  find  no  spot  in  Judas,  save  that  he, 
Driving  a  duller  bargain  than  he  ought, 
Saddled  his  guild  with  too  cheap  precedent. 
O  Faith  !  if  thou  art  strong,  thine  opposite 
Is  mighty  also,  and  the  dull  fool's  sneer 
Hath  of  ttimes  shot  chill  palsy  through  the  arm 
Just  lifted  to  achieve  its  crowning  deed, 
And  made  the  firm-based  heart,  that  would  have 
quailed 

The  rack  or  fagot,  shudder  like  a  leaf 
Wrinkled  with  frost,  and  loose  upon  its  stem. 
The  wicked  and  the  weak,  by  some  dark  law, 
Have  a  strange  power  to  shut  and  rivet  down 
Their  own  horizon  round  us,  to  unwing 
Our  heaven-aspiring  visions,  and  to  blur 
With  surly  clouds  the  Future's  gleaming  peaks, 
Far  seen  across  the  brine  of  thankless  years. 
If  the  chosen  soul  could  never  be  alone 
In  deep  mid-silence,  open-doored  to  God, 
No  greatness  ever  had  been  dreamed  or  done ; 
Among  dull  hearts  a  prophet  never  grew  ; 
The  nurse  of  full-grown  souls  is  solitude. 

The  old  world  is  effete  ;  there  man  with  man 
Jostles,  and,  in  the  brawl  for  means  to  live, 


150 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


Life  is  trod  underfoot,  - —  Life,  the  one  block 
Of  marble  that 's  vouchsafed  wherefrom  to  carve 
Our  great  thoughts,  white  and  godlike,  to  shine 
down 

The  future,  Life,  the  irredeemable  block, 
Which  one  o'er-hasty  chisel-dint  oft  mars, 
Scanting  our  room  to  cut  the  features  out 
Of  our  full  hope,  so  forcing  us  to  crown 
With  a  mean  head  the  perfect  limbs,  or  leave 
The  god's  face  glowing  o'er  a  satyr's  trunk, 
Failure's  brief  epitaph. 

Yes,  Europe's  world 
Reels  on  to  judgment ;  there  the  common  need, 
Losing  God's  sacred  use,  to  be  a  bond 
'Twixt  Me  and  Thee,  sets  each  one  scowlingly 
O'er  his  own  selfish  hoard  at  bay ;  no  state, 
Knit  strongly  with  eternal  fibres  up 
Of  all  men's  separate  and  united  weals, 
Self-poised  and  sole  as  stars,  yet  one  as  light, 
Holds  up  a  shape  of  large  Humanity 
To  which  by  natural  instinct  every  man 
Pays  loyalty  exulting,  by  which  all 
Mould  their  own  lives,  and  feel  their  pulses  filled 
With  the  red,  fiery  blood  of  the  general  life, 
Making  them  mighty  in  peace,  as  now  in  war 
They  are,  even  in  the  flush  of  victory,  weak, 
Conquering  that  manhood  which  should  them  sub- 
due. 

And  what  gift  bring  I  to  this  untried  world  ? 
Shall  the  same  tragedy  be  played  anew, 
And  the  same  lurid  curtain  drop  at  last 


COLUMBUS 


151 


On  one  dread  desolation,  one  fierce  crash 

Of  that  recoil  which  on  its  makers  God 

Lets  Ignorance  and  Sin  and  Hunger  make, 

Early  or  late  ?    Or  shall  that  commonwealth 

Whose  potent  unity  and  concentric  force 

Can  draw  these  scattered  joints  and  parts  of  men 

Into  a  whole  ideal  man  once  more, 

Which  sucks  not  from  its  limbs  the  life  away, 

But  sends  it  flood-tide  and  creates  itself 

Over  again  in  every  citizen, 

Be  there  built  up  ?    For  me,  I  have  no  choice ; 

I  might  turn  back  to  other  destinies, 

For  one  sincere  key  opes  all  Fortune's  doors  ; 

But  whoso  answers  not  God's  earliest  call 

Forfeits  or  dulls  that  faculty  supreme 

Of  lying  open  to  his  genius 

Which  makes  the  wise  heart  certain  of  its  ends. 

Here  am  I ;  for  what  end  God  knows,  not  I ; 

Westward  still  points  the  inexorable  soul : 

Here  am  I,  with  no  friend  but  the  sad  sea, 

The  beating  heart  of  this  great  enterprise, 

Which,  without  me,  would  stiffen  in  swift  death  ; 

This  have  I  mused  on,  since  mine  eye  could  first 

Among  the  stars  distinguish  and  with  joy 

Rest  on  that  God-fed  Pharos  of  the  north, 

On  some  blue  promontory  of  heaven  lighted 

That  juts  far  out  into  the  upper  sea; 

To  this  one  hope  my  heart  hath  clung  for  years, 

As  would  a  foundling  to  the  talisman 

Hung  round  his  neck  by  hands  he  knew  not  whose ; 

A  poor,  vile  thing  and  dross  to  all  beside, 


152 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


Yet  he  therein  can  feel  a  virtue  left 

By  the  sad  pressure  of  a  mother's  hand, 

And  unto  him  it  still  is  tremulous 

With  palpitating  haste  and  wet  with  tears, 

The  key  to  him  of  hope  and  humanness, 

The  coarse  shell  of  life's  pearl,  Expectancy. 

This  hope  hath  been  to  me  for  love  and  fame, 

Hath  made  me  wholly  lonely  on  the  earth, 

Building  me  up  as  in  a  thick-ribbed  tower, 

Wherewith  en  walled  my  watching  spirit  burned, 

Conquering  its  little  island  from  the  Dark, 

Sole  as  a  scholar's  lamp,  and  heard  men's  steps, 

In  the  far  hurry  of  the  outward  world, 

Pass  dimly  forth  and  back,  sounds  heard  in  dream.' 

As  Ganymede  by  the  eagle  was  snatched  up 

From  the  gross  sod  to  be  Jove's  cup-bearer, 

So  was  I  lifted  by  my  great  design : 

And  who  hath  trod  Olympus,  from  his  eye 

Fades  not  that  broader  outlook  of  the  gods ; 

His  life's  low  valleys  overbrow  earth's  clouds, 

And  that  Olympian  spectre  of  the  past 

Looms  towering  up  in  sovereign  memory, 

Beckoning  his  soul  from  meaner  heights  of  doom. 

Had  but  the  shadow  of  the  Thunderer's  bird, 

Flashing  athwart  my  spirit,  made  of  me 

A  swift-betraying  vision's  Ganymede, 

Yet  to  have  greatly  dreamed  precludes  low  ends ; 

Great  days  have  ever  such  a  morning-red, 

On  such  a  base  great  futures  are  built  up, 

And  aspiration,  though  not  put  in  act, 

Comes  back  to  ask  its  plighted  troth  again, 

Still  watches  round  its  grave  the  unlaid  ghost 


COLUMBUS 


153 


Of  a  dead  virtue,  and  makes  other  hopes, 
Save  that  implacable  one,  seem  thin  and  bleak 
As  shadows  of  bare  trees  upon  the  snow, 
Bouud  freezing  there  by  the  unpitying  moon. 

While  other  youths  perplexed  their  mandolins, 
Praying  that  Thetis  would  her  fingers  twine 
In  the  loose  glories  of  her  lover's  hair, 
And  wile  another  kiss  to  keep  back  day, 
I,  stretched  beneath  the  many-centuried  shade 
Of  some  writhed  oak,  the  wood's  Laocoon, 
Did  of  my  hope  a  dryad  mistress  make, 
Whom  I  would  woo  to  meet  me  privily, 
Or  underneath  the  stars,  or  when  the  moon 
Flecked  all  the  forest  floor  with  scattered  pearls. 

0  days  whose  memory  tames  to  fawning  down 
The  surly  fell  of  Ocean's  bristled  neck ! 

1  know  not  when  this  hope  enthralled  me  first, 
But  froni  my  boyhood  up  I  loved  to  hear 
The  tall  pine-forests  of  the  Apennine 
Murmur  their  hoary  legends  of  the  sea, 
Which  hearing,  I  in  vision  clear  beheld 

The  sudden  vdark  of  tropic  night  shut  down 
O'er  the  huge  whisper  of  great  watery  wastes, 
The  while  a  pair  of  herons  trailingly 
Flapped  inland,  where  some    league -wide  river 
hurled 

The  yellow  spoil  of  unconjectured  realms 
Far  through  a  gulf's  green  silence,  never  scarred 
By  any  but  the  North-wind's  hurrying  keels. 
And  not  the  pines  alone ;  all  sights  and  sounds 


154 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


To  my  world-seeking  heart  paid  fealty, 

And  catered  for  it  as  the  Cretan  bees 

Brought  honey  to  the  baby  Jupiter, 

Who  in  his  soft  hand  crushed  a  violet, 

Godlike  for  em  using  the  rough  thunder's  gripe ; 

Then  did  I  entertain  the  poet's  song, 

My  great  Idea's  guest,  and,  passing  o'er 

That  iron  bridge  the  Tuscan  built  to  hell, 

I  heard  Ulysses  tell  of  mountain-chains 

Whose  adamantine  links,  his  manacles, 

The  western  main  shook  growling,  and  still  gnawed. 

I  brooded  on  the  wise  Athenian's  tale 

Of  happy  Atlantis,  and  heard  Bjorne's  keel 

Crunch  the  gray  pebbles  of  the  Vinland  shore : 

I  listened,  musing,  to  the  prophecy 

Of  Nero's  tutor-victim ;  lo,  the  birds 

Sing  darkling,  conscious  of  the  climbing  dawn. 

And  I  believed  the  poets ;  it  is  they 

Who  utter  wisdom  from  the  central  deep, 

And,  listening  to  the  inner  flow  of  things, 

Speak  to  the  age  out  of  eternity. 

Ah  me !  old  hermits  sought  for  solitude 
In  caves  and  desert  places  of  the  earth, 
Where  their  own  heart-beat  was  the  only  stir 
Of  living  thing  that  comforted  the  year ; 
But  the  bald  pillar-top  of  Simeon, 
In  midnight's  blankest  waste,  were  populous, 
Matched  with  the  isolation  drear  and  deep 
Of  him  who  pines  among  the  swarm  of  men, 
At  once  a  new  thought's  king  and  prisoner, 
Feeling  the  truer  life  within  his  life, 


COLUMBUS 


155 


The  fountain  of  his  spirit's  prophecy, 
Sinking  away  and  wasting,  drop  by  drop, 
In  the  ungrateful  sands  of  sceptic  ears. 
He  in  the  palace-aisles  of  untrod  woods 
Doth  walk  a  king ;  for  him  the  pent-up  cell 
Widens  beyond  the  circles  of  the  stars, 
And  all  the  sceptred  spirits  of  the  past 
Come  thronging  in  to  greet  him  as  their  peer ; 
But  in  the  market-place's  glare  and  throng 
He  sits  apart,  an  exile,  and  his  brow 
Aches  with  the  mocking  memory  of  its  crown. 
Yet  to  the  spirit  select  there  is  no  choice  ; 
He  cannot  say,  This  will  I  do,  or  that, 
For  the  cheap  means  putting  Heaven's  ends  in 
pawn, 

And  bartering  his  bleak  rocks,  the  freehold  stern 
Of  destiny's  first-born,  for  smoother  fields 
That  yield  no  crop  of  self-denying  will ; 
A  hand  is  stretched  to  him  from  out  the  dark, 
Which  grasping  without  question,  he  is  led 
Where  there  is  work  that  he  must  do  for  God. 
The  trial  still  is  the  strength's  complement, 
And  the  uncertain,  dizzy  path  that  scales 
The  sheer  heights  of  supremest  purposes 
Is  steeper  to  the  angel  than  the  child. 
Chances  have  laws  as  fixed  as  planets  have, 
And  disappointment's  dry  and  bitter  root, 
Envy's  harsh  berries,  and  the  choking  pool 
Of  the  world's  scorn,  are  the  right  mother-milk 
To  the  tough  hearts  that  pioneer  their  kind, 
And  break  a  pathway  to  those  unknown  realms 
That  in  the  earth's  broad  shadow  lie  enthralled ; 


156  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


Endurance  is  the  crowning  quality, 
And  patience  all  the  passion  of  great  hearts ; 
These  are  their  stay,  and  when  the  leaden  world 
Sets  its  hard  face  against  their  fateful  thought, 
And  brute  strength,  like  the  Gaulish  conqueror, 
Clangs  his  huge  glaive  down  in  the  other  scale, 
The  inspired,  soul  but  flings  his  patience  in, 
And  slowly  that  outweighs  the  ponderous  globe,  — 
One  faith  against  a  whole  earth's  unbelief, 
One  soul  against  the  flesh  of  all  mankind. 

Thus  ever  seems  it  when  my  soul  can  hear 

The  voice  that  errs  not ;  then  my  triumph  gleams, 

O'er  the  blank  ocean  beckoning,  and  all  night 

My  heart  flies  on  before  me  as  I  sail ; 

Far  on  I  see  my  lifelong  enterprise, 

That  rose  like  Ganges  mid  the  freezing  snows 

Of  a  world's  solitude,  sweep  broadening  down, 

And,  gathering  to  itself  a  thousand  streams, 

Grow  sacred  ere  it  mingle  with  the  sea ; 

I  see  the  ungated  wall  of  chaos  old, 

With  blocks  Cyclopean  hewn  of  solid  night, 

Fade  like  a  wreath  of  unreturning  mist 

Before  the  irreversible  feet  of  light ;  — 

And  lo,  with  what  clear  omen  in  the  east 

On  day's  gray  threshold  stands  the  eager  dawn, 

Like  young  Leander  rosy  from  the  sea 

Glowing  at  Hero's  lattice ! 

One  day  more 
These  muttering  shoalbrains  leave  the  helm  to  me : 
God,  let  me  not  in  their  dull  ooze  be  stranded ; 


INCIDENT  OF  THE  FIRE  AT  HAMBURG  157 


Let  not  this  one  frail  bark,  to  hollow  which 

I  have  dug  out  the  pith  and  sinewy  heart 

Of  my  aspiring  life's  fair  trunk,  be  so 

Cast  up  to  warp  and  blacken  in  the  sun, 

Just  as  the  opposing  wind  'gins  whistle  off 

His  cheek-swollen  pack,  and  from  the  leaning  mast 

Fortune's  full  sail  strains  forward ! 

One  poor  day  !  — 
Eemember  whose  and  not  how  short  it  is ! 
It  is  God's  day,  it  is  Columbus's. 
A  lavish  day !    One  day,  with  life  and  heart, 
Is  more  than  time  enough  to  find  a  world. 


AN  INCIDENT  OF  THE  FIRE  AT  HAMBURG 

The  tower  of  old  Saint  Nicholas  soared  upward  to 
the  skies, 

Like  some  huge  piece  of  Nature's  make,  the  growth 
of  centuries ; 

You  could  not  deem  its  crowding  spires  a  work  of 
human  art, 

They  seemed  to  struggle  lightward  from  a  sturdy 
living  heart. 

Not  Nature's  self  more  freely  speaks  in  crystal  or 
in  oak, 

Than,  through  the  pious  builder's  hand,  in  that 
gray  pile  she  spoke  ; 


t 


158  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

And  as  from  acorn  springs  the  oak,  so,  freely  and 
alone, 

Sprang  from  his  heart  this  hymn  to  God,  sung  in 
obedient  stone. 

It  seemed  a  wondrous  freak  of  chance,  so  perfect, 
yet  so  rough, 

A  whim  of  Nature  crystallized  slowly  in  granite 
tough ; 

The  thick  spires  yearned  towards  the  sky  in  quaint 

harmonious  lines, 
And  in  broad  sunlight  basked  and  slept,  like  a 

grove  of  blasted  pines. 

Never  did  rock  or  stream  or  tree  lay  claim  with 
better  right 

To  all  the  adorning  sympathies  of  shadow  and  of 
light; 

And,  in  that  forest  petrified,  as  forester  there 
dwells 

Stout  Herman,  the  old  sacristan,  sole  lord  of  all  its 
bells. 

Surge  leaping  after  surge,  the  fire  roared  onward 
red  as  blood, 

Till  half  of  Hamburg  lay  engulfed  beneath  the 

eddying  flood  ; 
For  miles  away  the  fiery  spray  poured  down  its 

deadly  rain, 

And  back  and  forth  the  billows  sucked,  and  paused, 
and  burst  again. 


INCIDENT  OF  THE  FIRE  AT  HAMBURG  159 

From  square  to  square  with  tiger  leaps  panted  the 
lustful  fire, 

The  air  to  leeward  shuddered  with  the  gasps  of  its 
desire  ; 

And  church  and  palace,  which  even  now  stood 

whelmed  but  to  the  knee, 
Lift  their  black  roofs  like  breakers  lone  amid  the 

whirling  sea. 

Up  in  his  tower  old  Herman  sat  and  watched  with 
quiet  look  ; 

His  soul  had  trusted  God  too  long  to  be  at  last  for- 
sook ; 

He  could  not  fear,  for  surely  God  a  pathway  would 
unfold 

Through  this  red  sea  for  faithful  hearts,  as  once 
He  did  of  old. 

- 

But  scarcely  can  he  cross  himself,  or  on  his  good 
saint  call, 

Before  the  sacrilegious  flood  o'erleaped  the  church- 
yard wall ; 

And,  ere  a  pater  half  was  said,  mid  smoke  and 

crackling  glare, 
His  island  tower  scarce  juts  its  head  above  the 

wide  despair. 

Upon  the  peril's  desperate  peak  his  heart  stood  up 
sublime ; 

His  first  thought  was  for  God  above,  his  next  was 
for  his  chime ; 


160  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

"  Sing  now  and  make  your  voices  heard  in  hymns 

of  praise,"  cried  he, 
"As  did  the  Israelites  of  old,  safe  walking  through 

the  sea ! 

"  Through  this  red  sea  our  God  hath  made  the 

pathway  safe  to  shore  ; 
Our  promised  land  stands  full  in  sight* ;  shout  now 

as  ne'er  before  !  " 
And  as  the  tower  came  crashing  down,  the  bells,  in 

clear  accord, 

Pealed  forth  the  grand  old  German  hymn,  —  "  All 
good  souls,  praise  the  Lord !  n 


THE  SOWER 

I  saw  a  Sower  walking  slow 
Across  the  earth,  from  east  to  west ; 
His  hair  was  white  as  mountain  snow, 
His  head  drooped  forward  on  his  breast. 

With  shrivelled  hands  he  flung  his  seed, 
Nor  ever  turned  to  look  behind  ; 
Of  sight  or  sound  he  took  no  heed ; 
It  seemed  he  was  both  deaf  and  blind. 

His  dim  face  showed  no  soul  beneath, 
Yet  in  my  heart  I  felt  a  stir, 
As  if  I  looked  upon  the  sheath, 
That  once  had  held  Excalibur. 


THE  SOWER 


161 


I  heard,  as  still  the  seed  he  cast, 
How,  crooning  to  himself,  he  sung, 
"  I  sow  again  the  holy  Past, 
The  happy  days  when  I  was  young. 

44  Then  all  was  wheat  without  a  tare, 
Then  all  was  righteous,  fair,  and  true  ; 
And  I  am  he  whose  thoughtful  care 
Shall  plant  the  Old  World  in  the  New, 

44  The  fruitful  germs  I  scatter  free, 
With  busy  hand,  while  all  men  sleep  ; 
In  Europe  now,  from  sea  to  sea, 
The  nations  bless  me  as  they  reap.'* 

Then  I  looked  back  along  his  path, 
And  heard  the  clash  of  steel  on  steel, 
Where  man  faced  man,  in  deadly  wrath, 
While  clanged  the  tocsin's  hurrying  peal. 

The  sky  with  burning  towns  flared  red, 
Nearer  the  noise  of  fighting  rolled, 
And  brothers'  blood,  by  brothers  shed, 
Crept  curdling  over  pavements  cold. 

Then  marked  I  how  each  germ  of  truth 
Which  through  the  dotard's  fingers  ran 
Was  mated  with  a  dragon's  tooth 
Whence  there  sprang  up  an  armed  man. 

I  shouted,  but  he  could  not  hear ; 
Made  signs,  but  these  he  could  not  see ; 


162 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


And  still,  without  a  doubt  or  fear. 
Broadcast  he  scattered  anarchy, 

Long  to  my  straining  ears  the  blast 
Brought  faintly  back  the  words  he  sung : 
"  I  sow  again  the  holy  Past, 
The  happy  days  when  I  was  young." 


HUNGER  AND  COLD 

Sisters  two,  all  praise  to  you, 
With  your  faces  pinched  and  blue  ; 
To  the  poor  man  you 've  been  true 

From  of  old : 
You  can  speak  the  keenest  word, 
You  are  sure  of  being  heard, 
From  the  point  you  're  never  stirred, 

Hunger  and  Cold  ! 

Let  sleek  statesmen  temporize ; 
Palsied  are  their  shifts  and  lies 
When  they  meet  your  bloodshot  eyes9 

Grim  and  bold ; 
Policy  you  set  at  naught, 
In  their  traps  you  '11  not  be  caught. 
You  're  too  honest  to  be  bought, 

Hunger  and  Cold ! 

Bolt  and  bar  the  palace  door ; 
While  the  mass  of  men  are  poor, 
Naked  truth  grows  more  and  more 


HUNGER  AND  COLD 


163 


Uncontrolled ; 
You  had  never  yet,  I  guess, 
Any  praise  for  bashf ulness, 
You  can  visit  sans  court-dress, 

Hunger  and  Cold ! 

While  the  music  fell  and  rose, 
And  the  dance  reeled  to  its  close, 
Where  her  round  of  costly  woes 

Fashion  strolled, 
I  beheld  with  shuddering  fear 
Wolves'  eyes  through  the  windows  peer ; 
JLittle  dream  they  you  are  near, 

Hunger  and  Cold ! 

When  the  toiler's  heart  you  clutch, 
Conscience  is  not  valued  much, 
He  recks  not  a  bloody  smutch 

On  his  gold : 
Everything  to  you  defers, 
You  are  potent  reasoners, 
At  your  whisper  Treason  stirs, 

Hunger  and  Cold ! 

Rude  comparisons  you  draw, 
Words  refuse  to  sate  your  maw, 
Your  gaunt  limbs  the  cobweb  law 

Cannot  hold : 
You  're  not  clogged  with  foolish  pride, 
But  can  seize  a  right  denied : 
Somehow  God  is  on  your  side, 

Hunger  and  Cold ! 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

You  respect  no  hoary  wrong 
More  for  having  triumphed  long  ; 
Its  past  victims,  haggard  throng, 

From  the  mould 
You  unbury  :  swords  and  spears 
Weaker  are  than  poor  men's  tears, 
Weaker  than  your  silent  years, 

Hunger  and  Cold ! 

Let  them  guard  both  hall  and  bower ; 
Through  the  window  you  will  glower, 
Patient  till  your  reckoning  hour 

Shall  be  tolled ; 
Cheeks  are  pale,  but  hands  are  red, 
Guiltless  blood  may  chance  be  shed, 
But  ye  must  and  will  be  fed, 

Hunger  and  Cold  ! 

God  has  plans  man  must  not  spoil, 
Some  were  made  to  starve  and  toil, 
Some  to  share  the  wine  and  oil* 

We  are  told : 
Devil's  theories  are  these, 
Stifling  hope  and  love  and  peace, 
Framed  your  hideous  lusts  to  please, 

Hunger  and  Cold ! 

Scatter  ashes  on  thy  head, 
Tears  of  burning  sorrow  shed,, 
Earth !  and  be  by  Pity  led 
To  Love's  fold ; 


THE  LANDLORD 


165 


Ere  they  block  the  very  door 
With  lean  corpses  of  the  poor, 
And  will  hush  for  naught  but  gore, 
Hunger  and  Cold  ! 


THE  LANDLORD 

What  boot  your  houses  and  your  lands  ? 

In  spite  of  close-drawn  deed  and  fence, 
Like  water,  'twixt  your  cheated  hands, 
They  slip  into  the  graveyard's  sands, 

And  mock  your  ownership's  pretence. 

How  shall  you  speak  to  urge  your  right, 

Choked  with  that  soil  for  which  you  lust  ? 
The  bit  of  clay,  for  whose  delight 
You  grasp,  is  mortgaged,  too  ;  Death  might 
Foreclose  this  very  day  in  dust. 

Fence  as  you  please,  this  plain  poor  man, 
Whose  only  fields  are  in  his  wit, 

Who  shapes  the  world,  as  best  he  can, 

According  to  God's  higher  plan, 
Owns  you,  and  fences  as  is  fit. 

Though  yours  the  rents,  his  incomes  wax 

By  right  of  eminent  domain ; 
From  factory  tall  to  woodman's  axe, 
All  things  on  earth  must  pay  their  tax, 

To  feed  his  hungry  heart  and  brain. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


He  takes  you  from  your  easy-chair, 

And  what  he  plans  that  you  must  do ; 
You  sleep  in  down,  eat  dainty  fare,  — 
He  mounts  his  crazy  garret-stair 
And  starves,  the  landlord  over  you. 

Feeding  the  clods  your  idlesse  drains, 

You  make  more  green  six  feet  of  soil ; 
His  fruitful  word,  like  suns  and  rains, 
Partakes  the  seasons'  bounteous  pains, 
And  toils  to  lighten  human  toil. 

Your  lands,  with  force  or  cunning  got, 
Shrink  to  the  measure  of  the  grave  ; 
But  Death  himself  abridges  not 
The  tenures  of  almighty  thought, 
The  titles  of  the  wise  and  brave. 


TO  A  PINE-TREE 

Far  up  on  Katahdin  thou  towerest, 

Purple-blue  with  the  distance  and  vast ; 

Like  a  cloud  o'er  the  lowlands  thou  lowerest, 
That  hangs  poised  on  a  lull  in  the  blast, 
To  its  fall  leaning  awful. 

In  the  storm,  like  a  prophet  o'ermaddened, 
Thou  singest  and  tossest  thy  branches  ; 

Thy  heart  with  the  terror  is  gladdened, 
Thou  forebodest  the  dread  avalanches, 
When  whole  mountains  swoop  valeward. 


TO  A  PINE-TREE 


167 


In  the  calm  thou  o'erstretchest  the  valleys 
With  thine  arms,  as  if  blessings  imploring, 

Like  an  old  king  led  forth  from  his  palace, 
When  his  people  to  battle  are  pouring 
From  the  city  beneath  him. 

To  the  lumberer  asleep  'neath  thy  glooming 
Thou  dost  sing  of  wild  billows  in  motion, 

Till  he  longs  to  be  swung  mid  their  booming 
In  the  tents  of  the  Arabs  of  ocean, 
Whose  finned  isles  are  their  cattle. 

For  the  gale  snatches  thee  for  his  lyre, 
With  mad  hand  crashing  melody  frantic, 

While  he  pours  forth  his  mighty  desire 
To  leap  down  on  the  eager  Atlantic, 
Whose  arms  stretch  to  his  playmate. 

The  wild  storm  makes  his  lair  in  thy  branches, 
Swooping  thence  on  the  continent  under ; 

Like  a  lion,  crouched  close  on  his  haunches, 
There  awaiteth  his  leap  the  fierce  thunder, 
Growling  low  with  impatience. 

Spite  of  winter,  thou  keep'st  thy  green  glory, 
Lusty  father  of  Titans  past  number ! 

The  snow-flakes  alone  make  thee  hoary, 
Nestling  close  to  thy  branches  in  slumber, 
And  thee  mantling  with  silence. 

Thou  alone  know'st  the  splendor  of  winter, 
Mid  thy  snow-silvered,  hushed  precipices, 


168  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

Hearing  crags  of  green  ice  groan  and  splinter, 
And  then  plunge  down  the  muffled  abysses 
In  the  quiet  of  midnight. 

Thou  alone  know'st  the  glory  of  summer, 
Gazing  down  on  thy  broad  seas  of  forest, 

On  thy  subjects  that  send  a  proud  murmur 
Up  to  thee,  to  their  sachem,  who  towerest 
From  thy  bleak  throne  to  heaven. 


SI  DESCENDERO  IN  INFERNUM,  ADES 

O,  wandering  dim  on  the  extremest  edge 

Of  God's  bright  providence,  whose  spirits  sigh 

Drearily  in  you,  like  the  winter  sedge 

That  shivers  o'er  the  dead  pool  stiff  .and  dry, 
A  thin,  sad  voice,  when  the  bold  wind  roars  by 
From  the  clear  North  of  Duty, — 

Still  by  cracked  arch  and  broken  shaft  I  trace 

That  here  was  once  a  shrine  and  holy  place 
Of  the  supernal  Beauty, 
A  child's  play-altar  reared  of  stones  and  moss, 
With  wilted  flowers  for  offering  laid  across, 

Mute  recognition  of  the  all-ruling  Grace. 

How  far  are  ye  from  the  innocent,  from  those 

Whose  hearts  are  as  a  little  lane  serene, 
Smooth-heaped  from  wall  to  wall  with  unbroke 
snows, 

Or  in  the  summer  blithe  with  lamb-cropped 
green, 


SI  DESCENDERO  IN  1NFERNUM  169 


Save  the  one  track,  where  naught  more  rude  is 
seen 

Than  the  plump  wain  at  even 
Bringing  home  four  months'  sunshine  bound  in 
sheaves ! 

How  far  are  ye  from  those !  yet  who  believes 
That  ye  can  shut  out  heaven  ? 
Your  souls  partake  its  influence,  not  in  vain 
Nor  all  unconscious,  as  that  silent  lane 

Its  drift  of  noiseless  apple-blooms  receives. 

Looking  within  myself,  I  note  how  thin 

A  plank  of  station,  chance,  or  prosperous  fate, 

Doth  fence  me  from  the  clutching  waves  of  sin ; 
In  my  own  heart  I  find  the  worst  man's  mate, 
And  see  not  dimly  the  smooth-hinged  gate 
That  opes  to  those  abysses 

Where  ye  grope  darkly,  —  ye  who  never  knew 

On  your  young  hearts  love's  consecrating  dew, 
Or  felt  a  mother's  kisses, 
Or  home's  restraining  tendrils  round  you  curled  ; 
Ah,  side  by  side  with  heart's-ease  in  this  world 

The  fatal  nightshade  grows  and  bitter  rue ! 

One  band  ye  cannot  break,  —  the  force  that  clips 
'  And  grasps  your  circles  to  the  central  light ; 
Yours  is  the  prodigal  comet's  long  ellipse, 
Self-exiled  to  the  farthest  verge  of  night ; 
Yet  strives  with  you  no  less  that  inward  might 
No  sin  hath  e'er  imbruted ; 
The  god  in  you  the  creed-dimmed  eye  eludes ; 
The  Law  brooks  not  to  have  its  solitudes 


170  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


By  bigot  feet  polluted ; 
Yet  they  who  watch  your  God-compelled  return 
May  see  your  happy  perihelion  burn 
Where  the  calm  sun  his  unfledged  planets  broods. 


TO  THE  PAST 

Wondrous  and  awful  are  thy  silent  halls, 

O  kingdom  of  the  past ! 
There  lie  the  bygone  ages  in  their  palls, 
Guarded  by  shadows  vast ; 
There  all  is  hushed  and  breathless, 
Save  when  some  image  of  old  error  falls 
Earth  worshipped  once  as  deathless. 

There  sits  drear  Egypt,  mid  beleaguering  sands, 

Half  woman  and  half  beast, 
The  burnt-out  torch  within  her  mouldering  hands 
That  once  lit  all  the  East ; 
A  dotard  bleared  and  hoary, 
There  Asser  crouches  o'er  the  blackened  brands 
Of  Asia's  long-quenched  glory. 

Still  as  a  city  buried  'neath  the  sea 
Thy  courts  and  temples  stand  ; 
Idle  as  forms  on  wind-waved  tapestry 
Of  saints  and  heroes  grand, 
Thy  phantasms  grope  and  shiver, 
Or  watch  the  loose  shores  crumbling  silently 
Into  Time's  gnawing  river. 


TO  THE  PAST 


171 


Titanic  shapes  with  faces  blank  and  dun, 

Of  their  old  godhead  lorn, 
Gaze  on  the  embers  of  the  sunken  sun, 
Which  they  misdeem  for  morn  ; 
And  yet  the  eternal  sorrow 
In  their  unmonarched  eyes  says  day  is  done 
Without  the  hope  of  morrow. 

0  realm  of  silence  and  of  swart  eclipse, 

The  shapes  that  haunt  thy  gloom 
Make  signs  to  us  and  move  their  withered  lips 
Across  the  gulf  of  doom  ; 
Yet  all  their  sound  and  motion 
Bring   no   more  freight  to  us  than  wraiths  of 
ships 

On  the  mirage's  ocean. 

And  if  sometimes  a  moaning  wandereth 

From  out  thy  desolate  halls, 
If  some  grim  shadow  of  thy  living  death 
Across  our  sunshine  falls 
And  scares  the  world  to  error, 
The  eternal  life  sends  forth  melodious  breath 
To  chase  the  misty  terror. 

Thy  mighty  clamors,  wars,  and  world-noised  deeds 

Are  silent  now  in  dust, 
Gone  like  a  tremble  of  the  huddling  reeds 
Beneath  some  sudden  gust ; 
Thy  forms  and  creeds  have  vanished, 
Tossed  out  to  wither  like  unsightly  weeds 
From  the  world's  garden  banished. 


172  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


Whatever  of  true  life  there  was  in  thee 

Leaps  in  our  age's  veins ; 
Wield  still  thy  bent  and  wrinkled  empery, 
And  shake  thine  idle  chains ;  — 
To  thee  thy  dross  is  clinging, 
For  us  thy  martyrs  die,  thy  prophets  see, 
Thy  poets  still  are  singing. 

Here,  mid  the  bleak  wTaves  of  our  strife  and  care, 

Float  the  green  Fortunate  Isles 
Where  all  thy  hero-spirits  dwell,  and  share 
Our  martyrdoms  and  toils  ; 
The  present  moves  attended 
With  all  of  brave  and  excellent  and  fair 
That  made  the  old  time  splendid. 


TO  THE  FUTURE 

O  Land  of  Promise !  from  what  Pisgah's  height 

Can  I  behold  thy  stretch  of  peaceful  bowers, 
Thy  golden  harvests  flowing  out  of  sight, 

Thy  nestled  homes  and  sun-illumined  towers? 
Gazing  upon  the  sunset's  high-heaped  gold, 
Its  crags  of  opal  and  of  chrysolite, 

Its  deeps  on  deeps  of  glory,  that  unfold 
Still  brightening  abysses, 
And  blazing  precipices, 
Whence  but  a  scanty  leap  it  seems  to  heaven, 

Sometimes  a  glimpse  is  given 
Of  thy  more  gorgeous  realm,  thy  more  unstinted 
blisses. 


TO  THE  FUTURE 


173 


0  Land  of  Quiet !  to  thy  shore  the  surf 

Of  the  perturbed  Present  rolls  and  sleeps ; 
Our  storms  breathe  soft  as  J une  upon  thy  turf 
And  lure  out  blossoms  ;  to  thy  bosom  leaps, 
As  to  a  mother's,  the  o'erwearied  heart, 
Hearing  far  off  and  dim  the  toiling  mart, 

The  hurrying  feet,  the  curses  without  number, 
And,  circled  with  the  glow  Elysian 
Of  thine  exulting  vision, 
Out  of  its  very  cares  wooes  charms  for  peace  and 
slumber. 

To  thee  the  earth  lifts  up  her  fettered  hands 

And  cries  for  vengeauce ;  with  a  pitying  smile 
Thou  blessest  her,  and  she  forgets  her  bands, 

And  her  old  woe-worn  face  a  little  while 
Grows  young  and  noble ;  unto  thee  the  Oppressor 

Looks,  and  is  dumb  with  awe ; 

The  eternal  law, 
Which  makes  the  crime  its  own  blindfold  redresser, 
Shadows  his  heart  with  perilous  foreboding, 

And  he  can  see  the  grim-eyed  Doom 

From  out  the  trembling  gloom 
Its  silent-footed  steeds  towards  his  palace  goading. 

What  promises  hast  thou  for  Poets'  eyes, 
Aweary  of  the  turmoil  and  the  wrong ! 

To  all  their  hopes  what  overjoyed  replies ! 
What  undreamed  ecstasies  for  blissful  song ! 

Thy  happy  plains  no  war-trump's  brawling  clangor 
Disturbs,  and  fools  the  poor  to  hate  the  poor ; 

The  humble  glares  not  on  the  high  with  anger ; 


174 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


Love  leaves  no  grudge  at  less,  no  greed  for  more ; 
In  vain  strives  Self  the  godlike  sense  to  smother ; 
From  the  soul's  deeps 
It  throbs  and  leaps ; 
The  noble  'neath  foul  rags  beholds  his  long-lost 
brother. 

To  thee  the  Martyr  looketh,  and  his  fires 

Unlock  their  fangs  and  leave  his  spirit  free ; 
To  thee  the  Poet  mid  his  toil  aspires, 

And  grief  and  hunger  climb  about  his  knee, 
Welcome  as  children  ;  thou  upholdest 

The  lone  Inventor  by  his  demon  haunted ; 
The  Prophet  cries  to  thee  when  hearts  are  coldest, 
And  gazing  o'er  the  midnight's  bleak  abyss, 
Sees  the  drowsed  soul  awaken  at  thy  kiss, 
And  stretch  its  happy  arms  and  leap  up  disen- 
chanted. 

Thou  bringest  vengeance,  but  so  loving-kindly 
The  guilty  thinks  it  pity  ;  taught  by  thee, 

Fierce  tyrants  drop  the  scourges  wherewith  blindly 
Their  own  souls  they  were  scarring ;  conquerors 

see 

With  horror  in  their  hands  the  accursed  spear 

That  tore  the  meek  One's  side  on  Calvary, 
And  from  their  trophies  shrink  with  ghastly  fear ; 
Thou,  too,  art  the  Forgiver, 
The  beauty  of  man's  soul  to  man  revealing ; 
The  arrows  from  thy  quiver 
Pierce  Error's  guilty  heart,  but  only  pierce  for 


healing. 


HEBE 


175 


Oh,  whither,^ whither,  glory-winged  dreams, 

From  out  Life's  sweat  and  turmoil  would  ye 
bear  me  ? 

Shut,  gates  of  Fancy,  on  your  golden  gleams,  — 

This  agony  of  hopeless  contrast  spare  me ! 
Fade,  cheating  glow,  and  leave  me  to  my  night ! 
He  is  a  coward,  who  would  borrow 
A  charm  against  the  present  sorrow 
From  the  vague  Future's  promise  of  delight: 
As  life's  alarums  nearer  roll, 
The  ancestral  buckler  calls, 
Self -clanging  from  the  walls 
In  the  high  temple  of  the  soul ; 
Where  are  most  sorrows,  there  the  poet's  sphere  is, 
To  feed  the  soul  with  patience, 
To  heal  its  desolations 
With  words  of  unshorn  truth,  with  love  that  never 
wearies. 


HEBE 

I  saw  the  twinkle  of  white  feet, 
I  saw  the  flash  of  robes  descending ; 

Before  her  ran  an  influence  fleet, 
That  bowed  my  heart  like  barley  bending. 

As,  in  bare  fields,  the  searching  bees 
Pilot  to  blooms  beyond  our  finding, 

It  led  me  on,  by  sweet  degrees 
Joy's  simple  honey-cells  unbinding. 


176 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


Those  Graces  were  that  seemed  grim  Fates 
With  nearer  love  the  sky  leaned  o'er  me ; 

The  long-sought  Secret's  golden  gates 
On  musical  hinges  swung  before  me. 

I  saw  the  brimmed  bowl  in  her  grasp 
Thrilling  with  godhood  ;  like  a  lover 

I  sprang  the  proffered  life  to  clasp  ;  — 
The  beaker  fell ;  the  luck  was  over. 

The  Earth  has  drunk  the  vintage  up ; 
What  boots  it  patch  the  goblet's  splinters  ? 

Can  Summer  fill  the  icy  cup. 
Whose  treacherous  crystal  is  but  Winter's  ? 

O  spendthrift  haste !  await  the  Gods ; 
Their  nectar  crowns  the  lips  of  Patience  ; 

Haste  scatters  on  unthankful  sods 
The  immortal  gift  in  vain  libations. 

Coy  Hebe  flies  from  those  that  woo, 
And  shuns  the  hands  would  seize  upon  her ; 

Follow  thy  life,  and  she  will  sue 
To  pour  for  thee  the  cup  of  honor. 


THE  SEARCH 

I  went  to  seek  for  Christ, 
And  Nature  seemed  so  fair 
That  first  the  woods  and  fields  my  youth  enticed, 
And  I  was  sure  to  find  him  there : 


THE  SEARCH  177 

The  temple  I  forsook, 
And  to  the  solitude 
Allegiance  paid  ;  but  Winter  came  and  shook 

The  crown  and  purple  from  my  wood ; 
His  snows,  like  desert  sands,  with  scornful  drift, 
Besieged  the  columned  aisle  and  palace-gate ; 
My  Thebes,  cut  deep  with  many  a  solemn  rift, 

But  epitaphed  her  own  sepulchred  state : 
Then  I  remembered  whom  I  went  to  seek, 
And  blessed  blunt  Winter  for  his  counsel  bleak. 

Back  to  the  world  I  turned, 
For  Christ,  I  said,  is  King ; 
So  the  cramped  alley  and  the  hut  I  spurned, 
As  far  beneath  his  sojourning : 
Mid  power  and  wealth  I  sought, 
But  found  no  trace  of  him, 
And  all  the  costly  offerings  I  had  brought 

With  sudden  rust  and  mould  grew  dim : 
I  found  his  tomb,  indeed,  where,  by  their  laws, 
All  must  on  stated  days  themselves  imprison, 
Mocking  with  bread  a  dead  creed's  grinning  ja^vs, 

Witless  how  long  the  life  had  thence  arisen ; 
Due  sacrifice  to  this  they  set  apart, 
Prizing  it  more  than  Christ's  own  living  heart. 

So  from  my  feet  the  dust 
Of  the  proud  World  I  shook ; 
Then  came  dear  Love  and  shared  with  me  his  crust, 
And  half  my  sorrow's  burden  took. 
After  the  World's  soft  bed, 
Its  rich  and  dainty  fare, 


178  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

Like  down  seemed  Love's  coarse  pillow  to  my  head, 

His  cheap  food  seemed  as  manna  rare ; 
Fresh-trodden  prints  of  bare  and  bleeding  feet, 

Turned  to  the  heedless  city  whence  I  came, 
Hard  by  I  saw,  and  springs  of  worship  sweet 

Gushed  from  my  cleft  heart  smitten  by  the  same ; 
Love  looked  me  in  the  face  and  spake  no  words, 
But  straight  I  knew  those  footprints  were  the 
Lord's. 


I  followed  where  they  led, 
And  in  a  hovel  rude, 
With  naught  to  fence  the  weather  from  his  head, 
The  King  I  sought  for  meekly  stood  ; 
A  naked,  hungry  child 
Clung  round  his  gracious  knee, 
And  a  poor  hunted  slave  looked  up  and  smiled 

To  bless  the  smile  that  set  him  free ; 
New  miracles  I  saw  his  presence  do, ; — 

No  more  I  knew  the  hovel  bare  and  poor, 
The  gathered  chips  into  a  woodpile  grew, 

The  broken  morsel  swelled  to  goodly  store  ; 
I  knelt  and  wept :  my  Christ  no  more  I  seek, 
His  throne  is  with  the  outcast  and  the  weak. 


THE  PRESENT  CRISIS 

When  a  deed  is  done  for  Freedom,  through  the 

broad  earth's  aching  breast 
Runs  a  thrill  of  joy  prophetic,  trembling  on  from 

east  to  west, 


THE  PRESENT  CRISIS 


179 


And  the  slave,  where'er  he  cowers,  feels  the  soul 
within  him  climb 

To  the  awful  verge  of  manhood,  as  the  energy  sub- 
lime 

Of  a  century  bursts  full-blossomed  on  the  thorny 
stem  of  Time. 

Through  the  walls  of  hut  and  palace  shoots  the 
instantaneous  throe, 

When  the  travail  of  the  Ages  wrings  earth's  sys- 
tems to  and  fro ; 

At  the  birth  of  each  new  Era,  with  a  recognizing 
start, 

Nation  wildly  looks  at  nation,  standing  with  mute 
lips  apart, 

And  glad  Truth's  yet  mightier  man-child  leaps  be- 
neath the  Future's  heart. 

So  the  Evil's  triumph  sendeth,  with  a  terror  and  a 
chill, 

Under  continent  to  continent,  the  sense  of  coming 

m, 

And  the  slave,  where'er  he  cowers,  feels  his  sym- 
pathies with  God 

In  hot  tear-drops  ebbing  earthward,  to  be  drunk 
up  by  the  sod, 

Till  a  corpse  crawls  round  unburied,  delving  in  the 
nobler  clod. 

For  mankind  are  one  in  spirit,  and  an  instinct 
bears  along, 

Round  the  earth's  electric  circle,  the  swift  flash  of 
right  or  wrong ; 


180 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


Whether  conscious  or  unconscious,  yet  Humanity's 
vast  frame 

Through  its  ocean-sundered  fibres  feels  the  gush  of 

joy  or  shame  ;  — 
In  the  gain  or  loss  of  one  race  all  the  rest  have 

equal  claim. 

Once  to  every  man  and  nation  comes  the  moment 
to  decide, 

In  the  strife  of  Truth  with  Falsehood,  for  the  good 
or  evil  side ; 

Some  great  cause,  God's  new  Messiah,  offering 
each  the  bloom  or  blight, 

Parts  the  goats  upon  the  left  hand,  and  the  sheep 
upon  the  right, 

And  the  choice  goes  by  forever  'twixt  that  dark- 
ness and  that  light. 

Hast  thou  chosen,  O  my  people,  on  whose  party 

thou  shalt  stand, 
Ere  the  Doom  from  its  worn  sandals  shakes  the 

dust  against  our  land  ? 
Though  the  cause  of  Evil  prosper,  yet 't  is  Truth 

alone  is  strong, 
And,  albeit  she  wander  outcast  now,  I  see  around 

her  throng 

Troops  of  beautiful,  tall  angels,  to  enshield  her 
from  all  wrong. 

Backward  look  across  the  ages  and  the  beacon- 
moments  see, 

That,  like  peaks  of  some  sunk  continent,  jut 
through  Oblivion's  sea ; 


THE  PRESENT  CRISIS 


181 


Not  an  ear  in  court  or  market  for  the  low  fore- 
boding cry 

Of  those  Crises,  God's  stern  winnowers,  from 
whose  feet  earth's  chaff  must  fly  ; 

Never  shows  the  choice  momentous  till  the  judg- 
ment hath  passed  by. 

Careless  seems  the  great  Avenger  ;  history's  pages 
but  record 

One  death-grapple  in  the  darkness  'twixt  old  sys- 
tems and  the  Word ; 

Truth  forever  on  the  scaffold,  Wrong  forever  on 
the  throne,  — 

Yet  that  scaffold  sways  the  future,  and,  behind  the 
dim  unknown, 

Standeth  God  within  the  shadow,  keeping  watch 
above  his  own. 


We  see  dimly  in  the  Present  what  is  small  and 

what  is  great, 
Slow  of  faith  how  weak  an  arm  may  turn  the  iron 

helm  of  fate, 

But  the  soul  is  still  oracular  ;  amid  the  market's 
din, 

List  the  ominous  stern  whisper  from  the  Delphic 

cave  within,  — 
|  They  enslave  their  children's  children  who  make 

compromise  with  sin." 

Slavery,  the  earth-born  Cyclops,  f ellest  of  the  giant 
brood, 

Sons  of  brutish  Force  and  Darkness,  who  have 
drenched  the  earth  with  blood, 


182  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

Famished  in  his  self-made  desert,  blinded  by  our 
purer  day, 

Gropes  in  yet  unblasted  regions  for  his  miserable 
prey ;  — 

Shall  we  guide  his  gory  fingers  where  our  helpless 
children  play  ? 

Then  to  side  with  Truth  is  noble  when  we  share 
her  wretched  crust, 

Ere  her  cause  bring  fame  and  profit,  and 't  is  pros- 
perous to  be  just ; 

Then  it  is  the  brave  man  chooses,  while  the  coward 
stands  aside, 

Doubting  in  his  abject  spirit,  till  his  Lord  is  cruci- 
fied, 

And  the  multitude  make  virtue  of  the  faith  they 
had  denied. 

Count  me  o'er  earth's  chosen  heroes,  —  they  were 
souls  that  stood  alone, 

While  the  men  they  agonized  for  hurled  the  con- 
tumelious stone, 

Stood  serene,  and  down  the  future  saw  the  golden 
beam  incline 

To  the  side  of  perfect  justice,  mastered  by  their 
faith  divine, 

By  one  man's  plain  truth  to  manhood  and  to  God's 
supreme  design. 

By  the  light  of  burning  heretics  Christ's  bleeding 
feet  I  track, 

Toiling  up  new  Calvaries  ever  with  the  cross  that 
turns  not  back, 


THE  PRESENT  CRISIS  183 

And  these  mounts  of  anguish  number  how  each 

generation  learned 
One  new  word  of  that  grand    Credo  which  in 

prophet-hearts  hath  burned 
Since  the  first  man  stood  God-conquered  with  his 

face  to  heaven  upturned. 

For  Humanity  sweeps  onward :  where  to-day  the 

martyr  stands, 
On  the  morrow  crouches  Judas  with  the  silver  in 

his  hands  ; 

Far  in  front  the  cross  stands  ready  and  the  crack- 
ling fagots  burn, 

While  the  hooting  mob  of  yesterday  in  silent  awe 
return 

To  glean  up  the  scattered  ashes  into  History's 
golden  urn. 

'T  is  as  easy  to  be  heroes  as  to  sit  the  idle  slaves 
Of  a  legendary  virtue  carved  upon  our  fathers9 
graves, 

Worshippers  of  light  ancestral  make  the  present 

light  a  crime  ;  — 
Was  the  Mayflower  launched  by  cowards,  steered 

by  men  behind  their  time  ? 
Turn  those  tracks  toward  Past  or  Future,  that 

make  Plymouth  Rock  sublime  ? 

They  were  men  of  present  valor,  stalwart  old  icon- 
oclasts, 

Unconvinced  by  axe  or  gibbet  that  all  virtue  was 
the  Past's ; 


184  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

But  we  make  their  truth  our  falsehood,  thinking 
that  hath  made  us  free, 

Hoarding  it  in  mouldy  parchments,  while  our  ten- 
der spirits  flee 

The  rude  grasp  of  that  great  Impulse  which  drove 
them  across  the  sea. 

They  have  rights  who  dare  maintain  them  ;  we  are 

traitors  to  our  sires, 
Smothering  in  their  holy  ashes  Freedom's  new-lit 

altar-fires  ; 

Shall  we  make  their  creed  our  jailer  ?  Shall  we, 
in  our  haste  to  slay, 

From  the  tombs  of  the  old  prophets  steal  the  fu- 
neral lamps  away 

To  light  up  the  martyr-fagots  round  the  prophets 
of  to-day? 

New  occasions  teach  new  duties  ;  Time  makes  an- 
cient good  uncouth ; 

They  must  upward  still,  and  onward,  who  would 
keep  abreast  of  Truth  ; 

Lo,  before  us  gleam  her  camp-fires !  we  ourselves 
must  Pilgrims  be, 

Launch  our  Mayflower,  and  steer  boldly  through 
the  desperate  winter  sea, 

Nor  attempt  the  Future's  portal  with  the  Past's 
blood-rusted  key. 
December,  1844. 


AN  INDIAN-SUMMER  REVERIE  185 


AN  INDIAN-SUMMER  REVERIE 

What  visionary  tints  the  year  puts  on, 
When  falling  leaves  falter  through  motionless  air 

Or  numbly  cling  and  shiver  to  be  gone  ! 
How  shimmer  the  low  flats  and  pastures  bare, 
As  with  her  nectar  Hebe  Autumn  fills 
The  bowl  between  me  and  those  distant  hills, 
And  smiles  and  shakes  abroad  her  misty,  tremu- 
lous hair ! 

No  more  the  landscape  holds  its  wealth  apart, 
Making  me  poorer  in  my  poverty, 

But  mingles  with  my  senses  and  my  heart ; 
My  own  projected  spirit  seems  to  me 
In  her  own  reverie  the  world  to  steep  ; 
'T  is  she  that  waves  to  sympathetic  sleep, 
Moving,  as  she  is  moved,  each  field  and  hill  and 
tree. 

How  fuse  and  mix,  with  what  unfelt  degrees, 
Clasped  by  the  faint  horizon's  languid  arms, 

Each  into  each,  the  hazy  distances ! 
The  softened  season  all  the  landscape  charms ; 
Those  hills,  my  native  village  that  embay, 
In  waves  of  dreamier  purple  roll  away, 
And  floating  in  mirage  seem  all  the  glimmering 
farms. 

Far  distant  sounds  the  hidden  chickadee 
Close  at  my  side ;  far  distant  sound  the  leaves ; 


186  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


The  fields  seem  fields  of  dream,  where  Memory 
Wanders  like  gleaning  Ruth  ;  and  as  the  sheaves 
Of  wheat  and  barley  wavered  in  the  eye 
Of  Boaz  as  the  maiden's  glow  went  by, 
So  tremble  and  seem  remote  all  things  the  sense 
receives. 

The  cock's  shrill  trump  that  tells  of  scattered 
corn, 

Passed  breezily  on  by  all  his  flapping  mates, 
Faint  and  more  faint,  from  barn  to  barn  is 
borne, 

Southward,  perhaps  to  far  Magellan's  Straits ; 
Dimly  I  catch  the  throb  of  distant  flails ; 
Silently  overhead  the  hen-hawk  sails, 
With  watchful,  measuring  eye,  and  for  his  quarry 
waits. 

The  sobered  robin,  hunger-silent  now, 
Seeks  cedar-berries  blue,  his  autumn  cheer ; 
The    chipmunk,  on   the   shingly  shagbark's 
bough, 

Now  saws,  now  lists  with  downward  eye  and  ear, 
Then  drops  his  nut,  and,  cheeping,  with  a 
bound 

Whisks  to  his  winding  fastness  underground  ; 
The  clouds  like  swans  drift  down  the  streaming  at- 
mosphere. 

O'er  yon  bare  knoll  the  pointed  cedar  shadows 
Drowse  on  the  crisp,  gray  moss;  the  plough- 
man's call 


AN  INDIAN-SUMMER  REVERIE  187 


Creeps  faint  as  smoke  from  black,  fresh-fur- 
rowed  meadows ; 
The  single  crow  a  single  caw  lets  fall ; 
And  all  around  me  every  bush  and  tree 
Says  Autumn 's  here,  and  Winter  soon  will  be, 
Who  snows  his  soft,  white  sleep  and  silence  over 
all. 

The  birch,  most  shy  and  ladylike  of  trees, 
Her  poverty,  as  best  she  may,  retrieves, 
And  hints  at  her  foregone  gentilities 
With  some  saved  relics  of  her  wealth  of  leaves ; 
The  swamp-oak,  with  his  royal  purple  on, 
Glares  red  as  blood  across  the  sinking  sun, 
As  one  who  proudlier  to  a  falling  fortune  cleaves. 

He  looks  a  sachem,  in  red  blanket  wrapt, 
Who,  mid  some  council  of  the  sad-garbed  whites, 

Erect  and  stern,  in  his  own  memories  lapt, 
With  distant  eye  broods  over  other  sights, 
Sees  the  hushed  wood  the  city's  flare  replace, 
The  wounded  turf  heal   o'er  the  railway's 
trace, 

And  roams  the  savage  Past  of  his  undwindled 
rights. 

The  red -oak,  softer -grained,  yields  all  for 
lost, 

And,  with  his  crumpled  foliage  stiff  and  dry, 

After  the  first  betrayal  of  the  frost, 
Rebuffs  the  kiss  of  the  relenting  sky  ; 

The  chestnuts,  lavish  of  their  long-hid  gold, 


188  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

To  the  faint  Summer,  beggared  now  and  old, 
Pour  back  the  sunshine  hoarded  'neath  her  favor- 
ing eye. 

The  ash  her  purple  drops  forgivingly 
And  sadly,  breaking  not  the  general  hush ; 

The  maple-swamps  glow  like  a  sunset  sea, 
Each  leaf  a  ripple  with  its  separate  flush ; 

All  round  the  wood's  edge  creeps  the  skirting 
blaze 

Of  bushes  low,  as  when,  on  cloudy  days, 
Ere  the  rain  fall,  the  cautious  farmer  burns  his 
brush. 

O'er  yon  low  wall,  which  guards  one  unkempt 
zone, 

Where  vines  and  weeds  and  scrub-oaks  inter- 
twine 

Safe  from  the  plough,  whose  rough,  discord- 
ant stone 

Is  massed  to  one  soft  gray  by  lichens  fine. 

The  tangled  blackberry,  crossed  and  recrossed, 
weaves 

A  prickly  network  of  ensanguined  leaves ; 
Hard  by,  with  coral  beads,  the  prim  black-alders 
shine. 

Pillaring  with  flame  this  crumbling  boundary, 
Whose  loose  blocks  topple  'neath  the  plough- 
boy's  foot, 

Who,  with  each  sense  shut  fast  except  the  eye, 
Creeps  close  and  scares  the  jay  he  hoped  to 
shoot, 


*  AN  INDIAN-SUMMER  REVERIE  189 


The  woodbine  up  the  elm's  straight  stem  as- 
spires, 

Coiling  it,  harmless,  with  autumnal  fires ; 
In  the  ivy's  paler  blaze  the  martyr  oak  stands 
mute. 

Below,  the  Charles,  a  stripe  of  nether  sky, 
Now  hid  by  rounded  apple-trees  between, 

Whose  gaps  the  misplaced  sail  sweeps  bellying 
by, 

Now  flickering  golden  through  a  woodland  screen, 
Then  spreading  out,  at  his  next  turn  beyond, 
A  silver  circle  like  an  inland  pond  — 
Slips  seaward  silently  through  marshes  purple  and 
green. 

Dear  marshes !  vain  to  him  the  gift  of  sight 
Who  cannot  in  their  various  incomes  share, 
From  every  season   drawn,   of    shade  and 
light, 

Who  sees  in  them  but  levels  brown  and  bare ; 
Each  change  of  storm  or  sunshine  scatters  free 
On  them  its  largess  of  variety, 
For  Nature  with  cheap  means  still  works  her  won- 
ders rare. 

In  Spring  they  lie  one  broad  expanse  of  green, 
O'er  which  the  light  winds  run  with  glimmering 
feet : 

Here,  yellower  stripes  track  out  the  creek  un- 
seen, 

There,  darker  growths  o'er  hidden  ditches  meet ; 


190  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


And  purpler  stains  show  where  the  blossoms 

crowd, 

As  if  the  silent  shadow  of  a  cloud 
Hung  there  becalmed,  with  the  next  breath  to  fleet. 

All  round,  upon  the  river's  slippery  edge, 
Witching  to  deeper  calm  the  drowsy  tide, 

Whispers  and   leans  the  breeze  -  entangling 

sedge ; 

Through  emerald  glooms  the  lingering  waters 
slide, 

Or,  sometimes  wavering,  throw  back  the  sun, 
And  the  stiff  banks  in  eddies  melt  and  run 
Of  dimpling  light,  and  with  the  current  seem  to 
glide. 

In  Summer 't  is  a  blithesome  sight  to  see, 
As,  step  by  step,  with  measured  swing,  they  pass, 

The  wide -ranked  mowers  wading  to  the  knee, 
Their  sharp  scythes  panting  through  the  wiry 
grass ; 

Then,  stretched  beneath  a  rick's  shade  in  a 
ring, 

Their  nooning  take,  while  one  begins  to  sing 
A  stave  that  droops  and  dies  "neath  the  close  sky 
of  brass. 

Meanwhile  that  devil-may-care,  the  bobolink, 
Remembering  duty,  in  mid-quaver  stops 

Just  ere  he  sweeps  o'er  rapture's  tremulous 
brink, 

And  'twixt  the  winrows  most  demurely  drops, 


AN  INDIAN-SUMMER  REVERIE  191 


A  decorous  bird  of  business,  who  provides 
For  his  brown  mate  and  fledglings  six  besides, 
And  looks  from  right  to  left,  a  farmer  mid  his 
crops. 

Another  change  subdues  them  in  the  Fall, 
But  saddens  not ;  they  still  show  merrier  tints, 

Though  sober  russet  seems  to  cover  all ; 
When  the  first  sunshine  through  their  dew-drops 
glints, 

Look  how  the   yellow   clearness,  streamed 
across, 

Redeems  with  rarer  hues  the  season's  loss, 
As  Dawn's  feet  there  had  touched  and  left  their 
rosy  prints. 

Or  come  when  sunset  gives  its  freshened  zest, 
Lean  o'er  the  bridge  and  let  the  ruddy  thrill, 
While  the  shorn  sun  swells  down  the  hazy 
west, 

Glow  opposite  ;  —  the  marshes  drink  their  fill 
And  swoon  with  purple  veins,  then  slowly  fade 
Through  pink  to  brown,  as  eastward  moves  the 
shade, 

Lengthening  with  stealthy  creep,  of  Simond's  dark- 
ening hill. 

Later,  and  yet  ere  Winter  wholly  shuts, 
Ere  through  the  first  dry  snow  the  runner  grates, 
And  the  loath  cart-wheel  screams  in  slippery 
ruts, 

While  firmer  ice  the  eager  boy  awaits, 


192  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

Trying  each  buckle  and  strap  beside  the  fire, 
And  until  bedtime  plays  with  his  desire, 
Twenty  times  putting  on  and  off  his  new-bought 
skates ;  — 

Then,  every  morn,  the  river's  banks  shine 
bright 

With  smooth  plate-armor,  treacherous  and  frail, 
By  the  frost's  clinking  hammers  forged  at 
night, 

'Gainst  which  the  lances  of  the  sun  prevail, 
Giving  a  pretty  emblem  of  the  day 
When  guiltier  arms  in  light  shall  melt  away, 
And  states  shall  move  free-limbed,  loosed  from 
war's  cramping  mail. 

And  now  those  waterfalls  the  ebbing  river 
Twice  every  day  creates  on  either  side 

Tinkle,  as  through  their  fresh-sparred  grots 
they  shiver 
In  grass-arched  channels  to  the  sun  denied ; 
High  flaps  in  sparkling  blue  the  far-heard 
crow, 

The  silvered  flats  gleam  frostily  below, 
Suddenly  drops  the  gull  and  breaks  the  glassy 
tide. 

But  crowned  in  turn  by  vying  seasons  three, 
Their  winter  halo  hath  a  fuller  ring ; 

This  glory  seems  to  rest  immovably,  — 
The  others  were  too  fleet  and  vanishing ; 

When  the  hid  tide  is  at  its  highest  flow, 


AN  INDIAN-SUMMER  REVERIE  193 

O'er  marsh  and  stream  one  breathless  trance 
of  snow 

With  brooding  fulness  awes  and  hushes  every- 
thing. 

The  sunshine  seems  blown  off  by  the  bleak 
wind, 

As  pale  as  formal  candles  lit  by  day  ; 

Gropes  to  the  sea  the  river  dumb  and  blind ; 
The  brown  ricks,  snow-thatched  by  the  storm  in 
P^y, 

Show  pearly  breakers  combing  o'er  their  lee, 
White  crests  as  of  some  just  enchanted  sea, 
Checked  in  their  maddest  leap  and  hanging  poised 
midway. 

But  when  the  eastern  blow,  with  rain  aslant, 
From  mid-sea's  prairies  green  and  rolling  plains 

Drives  in  his  wallowing  herds  of  billows  gaunt, 
And  the  roused  Charles  remembers  in  his  veins 

Old  Ocean's  blood  and  snaps  his  gyves  of 
frost, 

That  tyrannous  silence  on  the  shores  is  tost 
In  dreary  wreck,  and  crumbling  desolation  reigns. 

Edgewise  or  flat,  in  Druid-like  device, 
With  leaden  pools  between  or  gullies  bare, 
The  blocks  lie  strewn,  a  bleak  Stonehenge  of 
ice ; 

No  life,  no  sound,  to  break  the  grim  despair, 
Save  sullen  plunge,  as  through  the  sedges 
stiff 


194 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


Down  crackles  riverward  some  thaw-sapped 
cliff, 

Or  when  the  close-wedged  fields  of  ice  crunch  here 
and  there. 

But  let  me  turn  from  fancy-pictured  scenes 
To  that  whose  pastoral  calm  before  me  lies : 
Here  nothing  harsh  or  rugged  intervenes ; 
The  early  evening  with  her  misty  dyes 

Smooths  off  the  ravelled  edges  of  the  nigh, 
Relieves  the  distant  with  her  cooler  sky, 
And  tones  the  landscape  down,  and  soothes  the 
wearied  eyes* 

There  gleams  my  native  village,  dear  to  me, 
Though  higher  change's  waves  each  day  are  seen, 

Whelming  fields  famed  in  boyhood's  history, 
Sanding  with  houses  the  diminished  green  ; 

There,  in  red  brick,  which  softening  time  de- 
fies, 

Stand  square  and  stiff  the  Muses'  factories  ;  — 
How  with  my  life  knit  up  is  every  well-known 
scene ! 

Flow  on,  dear  river !  not  alone  you  flow 
To  outward  sight,  and   through  your  marshes 
wind ; 

Fed  from  the  mystic  springs  of  long-ago, 
Your  twin  flows  silent   through  my  world  of 
mind : 

Grow  dim,  dear  marshes,  in  the  evening's 
gray! 


AN  INDIAN-SUMMER  REVERIE  195 


Before  my  inner  sight  ye  stretch  away, 
And  will  forever,  though  these  fleshly  eyes  grow 
blind. 

Beyond  the  hillock's  house-bespotted  swell, 
Where  Gothic  chapels   house  the  horse  and 
chaise, 

Where  quiet  cits  in  Grecian  temples  dwell, 
Where  Coptic  tombs  resound  with  prayer  and 
praise, 

Where  dust  and  mud  the  equal  year  divide, 
There  gentle  Allston  lived,  and  wrought,  and 
died, 

Transfiguring  street  and  shop  with  his  illumined 
gaze. 

Virgilium  vidi  tantum,  —  I  have  seen 
But  as  a  boy,  who  looks  alike  on  all, 

That  misty  hair,  that  fine  Undine-like  mien, 
Tremulous  as  down  to  feeling's  faintest  call ;  — 
Ah,  dear  old  homestead !  count  it  to  thy  fame 
That  thither  many  times  the  Painter  came  ;  — 
One  elm  yet  bears  his  name,  a  feathery  tree  and 
tall. 

Swiftly  the  present  fades  in  memory's  glow,  — 
Our  only  sure  possession  is  the  past ; 

The  village  blacksmith  died  a  month  ago, 
And  dim  to  me  the  forge's  roaring  blast ; 
Soon  fire-new  medisevals  we  shall  see 
Oust  the  black  smithy  from  its  chestnut-tree, 
And  that  hewn  down,  perhaps,  the  bee-hive  green 
and  vast. 


196  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


How  many  times,  prouder  than  king  on  throne, 
Loosed  from  the  village  school-dame's  A's  and 
B's, 

Panting  have  I  the  creaky  bellows  blown, 
And  watched  the  pent  volcano's  red  increase, 
Then  paused  to  see  the  ponderous  sledge, 

brought  down 
By  that  hard  arm  voluminous  and  brown, 
From  the  white  iron  swarm  its  golden  vanishing  bees. 

Dear  native  town!  whose  choking  elms  each 

year 

With  eddying  dust  before  their  time  turn  gray, 
Pining  for  rain,  —  to  me  thy  dust  is  dear ; 

It  glorifies  the  eve  of  summer  day, 

And  when  the  westering  sun  half  sunken 
burns, 

The  mote-thick  air  to  deepest  orange  turns, 
The  westward  horseman  rides  through  clouds  of 
gold  away, 

So  palpable,  I  've  seen  those  unshorn  few, 
The  six  old  willows  at  the  causey's  end 

(Such  trees  Paul  Potter  never  dreamed  nor 
drew), 

Through  this  dry  mist  their  checkering  shadows 
send, 

Striped,  here  and  there,  with  many  a  long- 
drawn  thread, 
Where  streamed   through  leafy  chinks  the 
trembling  red, 
Past  which,  in  one  bright  trail,  the  hangbird's 
flashes  blend. 


AN  INDIAN-SUMMER  REVERIE  197 

Yes,  dearer  far  thy  dust  than  all  that  e'er, 
Beneath  the  awarded  crown  of  victory, 

Gilded  the  blown  Olympic  charioteer ; 
Though  lightly  prized  the  ribboned  parchments 
three, 

Yet  collegisse  juvat,  I  am  glad 
That  here  what  colleging  was  mine  I  had,  — 
It  linked  another  tie,  dear  native  town,  with  thee  ! 

Nearer  art  thou  than  simply  native  earth, 
My  dust  with  thine  concedes  a  deeper  tie  ; 

A  closer  claim  thy  soil  may  well  put  forth, 
Something  of  kindred  more  than  sympathy  ; 
For  in  thy  bounds  I  reverently  laid  away 
That  blinding  anguish  of  forsaken  clay, 
That  title  I  seemed  to  have  in  earth  and  sea  and 
sky, 

That  portion  of  my  life  more  choice  to  me 
(Though  brief,  yet  in  itself  so  round  and  whole) 

Than  all  the  imperfect  residue  can  be  ;  — 
The  Artist  saw  his  statue  of  the  soul 

Was  perfect ;  so,  with  one  regretful  stroke, 
The  earthen  model  into  fragments  broke, 
And  without  her  the  impoverished  seasons  roll. 


198 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


THE  GROWTH  OF  THE  LEGEND 

A  FRAGMENT 

A  legend  that  grew  in  the  forest's  hush 
Slowly  as  tear-drops  gather  and  gush, 
When  a  word  some  poet  chanced  to  say- 
Ages  ago,  in  his  careless  way, 
Brings  our  youth  back  to  us  out  of  its  shroud 
Clearly  as  under  yon  thunder-cloud 
I  see  that  white  sea-gull.    It  grew  and  grew, 
From  the  pine-trees  gathering  a  sombre  hue, 
Till  it  seems  a  mere  murmur  out  of  the  vast 
Norwegian  forests  of  the  past ; 
And  it  grew  itself  like  a  true  Northern  pine, 
First  a  little  slender  line, 

Like  a  mermaid's  green  eyelash,  and  then  anon 
A  stem  that  a  tower  might  rest  upon, 
Standing  spear-straight  in  the  waist-deep  moss, 
Its  bony  roots  clutching  around  and  across, 
As  if  they  would  tear  up  earth's  heart  in  their 
grasp 

Ere  the  storm  should  uproot  them  or  make  them 
unclasp ; 

Its  cloudy  boughs  singing,  as  suiteth  the  pine, 
To  snow-bearded  sea-kings  old  songs  of  the  brine, 
Till  they  straightened  and  let  their  staves  fall  to 
the  floor, 

Hearing  waves  moan  again  on  the  perilous  shore 
Of  Vinland,  perhaps,  while  their  prow  groped  its 

way 

'Twixt  the  frothed  gnashing  tusks  of  some  ship- 
crunching  bay. 


THE  GROWTH  OF  THE  LEGEND  199 


So,  pine-like,  the  legend  grew,  strong-limbed  and 
tall, 

As  the  Gypsy  child  grows  that  eats  crusts  in  the 
hall; 

It  sucked  the  whole  strength  of  the  earth  and  the 
sky, 

Spring,  Summer,  Fall,  Winter,  all  brought  it  sup- 

'T  was  a  natural  growth,  and  stood  fearlessly  there, 
True  part  of  the  landscape  as  sea,  land,  and  air ; 
For  it  grew  in  good  times,  ere  the  fashion  it  was 
To  force  these  wild  births  of  the  woods  under  glass, 
And  so,  if 't  is  told  as  it  should  be  told, 
Though 't  were  sung  under  Venice's  moonlight  of 
gold, 

You  would  hear  the  old  voice  of  its  mother,  the 
pine, 

Murmur  sealike  and  northern  through  every  line, 
And  the  verses  should  grow,  self-sustained  and 
free, 

Round  the  vibrating  stem  of  the  melody, 
Like  the  lithe  moonlit  limbs  of  the  parent  tree. 

Yes,  the  pine  is  the  mother  of  legends ;  what  food 
For  their  grim  roots  is  left  when  the  thousand- 

yeared  wood, 
The  dim-aisled  cathedral,  whose  tall  arches  spring 
Light,  sinewy,  graceful,  firm-set  as  the  wing 
From  Michael's  white  shoulder,  is  hewn  and  de- 
faced 

By  iconoclast  axes  in  desperate  waste, 

And  its  wrecks  seek  the  ocean  it  prophesied  long, 


200 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


Cassandra-like,  crooning  its  mystical  song  ? 
Then  the  legends  go  with  them,  —  even  yet  on  the 
sea 

A  wild  virtue  is  left  in  the  touch  of  the  tree, 

And  the  sailor's  night-watches  are  thrilled  to  the 

core 

With  the  lineal  offspring  of  Odin  and  Thor. 

Yes,  wherever  the  pine-wood  has  never  let  in, 
Since  the  day  of  creation,  the  light  and  the  din 
Of  manifold  life,  but  has  safely  conveyed 
From  the  midnight  primeval  its  armful  of  shade, 
And  has  kept  the  weird  Past  with  its  child-faith  alive 
Mid  the  hum  and  the  stir  of  To-day's  busy  hive, 
There  the  legend  takes  root  in  the  age -gathered 
gloom, 

And  its  murmurous  boughs  for  their  sagas  find 
room. 

Where  Aroostook,  far-heard,  seems  to  sob  as  he 
goes 

Groping  down  to  the  sea  'neath  his  mountainous 
snows  ; 

Where  the  lake's  frore  Sahara  of  never-tracked 
white, 

When  the  crack  shoots  across  it,  complains  to  the 
night 

With  a  long,  lonely  moan,  that  leagues  northward 
is  lost, 

As  the  ice  shrinks  away  from  the  tread  of  the  frost ; 
Where  the  lumberers  sit  by  the  log-fires  that  throw 
Their  own  threatening  shadows  far  round  o'er  the 
snow, 


A  CONTRAST 


201 


When  the  wolf  howls  aloof,  and  the  wavering  glare 
Flashes  out  from  the  blackness  the  eyes  of  the  bear, 
When  the  wood's  huge  recesses,  half -lighted,  supply 
A  canvas  where  Fancy  her  mad  brush  may  try, 
Blotting  in  giant  Horrors  that  venture  not  down 
Through  the  right-angled  streets  of  the  brisk, 

whitewashed  town, 
But  skulk  in  the  depths  of  the  measureless  wood 
Mid  the  Dark's  creeping  whispers  that  curdle  the 

blood, 

When  the  eye,  glanced  in  dread  o'er  the  shoulder, 
may  dream, 

Ere  it  shrinks  to  the  camp-fire's  companioning 
gleam, 

That  it  saw  the  fierce  ghost  of  the  Red  Man  crouch 
back 

To  the  shroud  of  the  tree-trunk's  invincible  black ; 

There  the  old  shapes  crowd  thick  round  the  pine- 
shadowed  camp, 

Which  shun  the  keen  gleam  of  the  scholarly  lamp, 

And  the  seed  of  the  legend  finds  true  Norland 
ground, 

While  the  border-tale 's  told  and  the  canteen  flits 
round. 


A  CONTRAST 

Thy  love  thou  sentest  oft  to  me, 
And  still  as  oft  I  thrust  it  back ; 

Thy  messengers  I  could  not  see 
In  those  who  everything  did  lack, 
The  poor,  the  outcast,  and  the  black. ' 


202  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

Pride  held  his  hand  before  mine  eyes, 

The  world  with  flattery  stuffed  mine  ears ; 

I  looked  to  see  a  monarch's  guise, 

Nor  dreamed  thy  love  would  knock  for  years, 
Poor,  naked,  fettered,  full  of  tears. 

Yet,  when  I  sent  my  love  to  thee, 
Thou  with  a  smile  didst  take  it  in, 

And  entertain'dst  it  royally, 

Though  grimed  with  earth,  with  hunger  thin, 
And  leprous  with  the  taint  of  sin. 

Now  every  day  thy  love  I  meet, 
As  o'er  the  earth  it  wanders  wide, 

With  weary  step  and  bleeding  feet, 
Still  knocking  at  the  heart  of  pride 
And  offering  grace,  though  still  denied. 


EXTREME  UNCTION 

Go !  leave  me,  Priest ;  my  soul  would  be 

Alone  with  the  consoler,  Death ; 
Far  sadder  eyes  than  thine  will  see 

This  crumbling  clay  yield  up  its  breath ; 
These  shrivelled  hands  have  deeper  stains 

Than  holy  oil  can  cleanse  away, 
Hands  that  have  plucked  the  world's  coarse  gains 

As  erst  they  plucked  the  flowers  of  May. 

Call,  if  thou  canst,  to  these  gray  eyes 

Some  faith  from  youth's  traditions  wrung ; 


EXTREME  UNCTION 


203 


This  fruitless  husk  which  dustward  dries 
Hath  been  a  heart  once,  hath  been  young ; 

On  this  bowed  head  the  awful  Past 
Once  laid  its  consecrating  hands  ; 

The  Future  in  its  purpose  vast 

Paused,  waiting  my  supreme  commands. 

But  look  !  whose  shadows  block  the  door  ? 

Who  are  those  two  that  stand  aloof  ? 
See  !  on  my  hands  this  freshening  gore 

Writes  o'er  again  its  crimson  proof ! 
My  looked-for  death-bed  guests  are  met ; 

There  my  dead  Youth  doth  wring  its  hands, 
And  there,  with  eyes  that  goad  me  yet, 

The  ghost  of  my  Ideal  stands  ! 

God  bends  from  out  the  deep  and  says, 

"  I  gave  thee  the  great  gift  of  life  ; 
Wast  thou  not  called  in  many  ways  ? 

Are  not  my  earth  and  heaven  at  strife  ? 
I  gave  thee  of  my  seed  to  sow, 

Bringest  thou  me  my  hundred-fold  ?  " 
Can  I  look  up  with  face  aglow, 

And  answer,  "  Father,  here  is  gold  "  ? 

I  have  been  innocent ;  God  knows 

When  first  this  wasted  life  began, 
Not  grape  with  grape  more  kindly  grows, 

Than  I  with  every  brother-man : 
Now  here  I  gasp  ;  what  lose  my  kind, 

When  this  fast  ebbing  breath  shall  part  ? 
What  bands  of  love  and  service  bind 

This  being  to  a  brother  heart  ? 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


Christ  still  was  wandering  o'er  the  earth 

Without  a  place  to  lay  his  head ; 
He  found  free  welcome  at  my  hearth, 

He  shared  my  cup  and  broke  my  bread : 
Now,  when  I  hear  those  steps  sublime, 

That  bring  the  other  world  to  this, 
My  snake-turned  nature,  sunk  in  slime, 

Starts  sideway  with  defiant  hiss. 

Upon  the  hour  when  I  was  born, 

God  said,  "  Another  man  shall  be," 
And  the  great  Maker  did  not  scorn 

Out  of  himself  to  fashion  me  ; 
He  sunned  me  with  his  ripening  looks, 

And  Heaven's  rich  instincts  in  me  grew, 
As  effortless  as  woodland  nooks 

Send  violets  up  and  paint  them  blue. 

Yes,  I  who  now,  with  angry  tears, 

Am  exiled  back  to  brutish  clod, 
Have  borne  unquenched  for  fourscore  years 

A  spark  of  the  eternal  God ; 
And  to  what  end  ?    How  yield  I  back 

The  trust  for  such  high  uses  given  ? 
Heaven's  light  hath  but  revealed  a  track 

Whereby  to  crawl  away  from  heaven. 

Men  think  it  is  an  awful  sight 

To  see  a  soul  just  set  adrift 
On  that  drear  voyage  from  whose  night 

The  ominous  shadows  never  lift ; 
But 't  is  more  awful  to  behold 

A  helpless  infant  newly  born, 


THE  OAK 


205 


Whose  little  hands  unconscious  hold 
The  keys  of  darkness  and  of  morn. 

Mine  held  them  once ;  I  flung  away 

Those  keys  that  might  have  open  set 
The  golden  sluices  of  the  day, 

But  clutch  the  keys  of  darkness  yet ; 
I  hear  the  reapers  singing  go 

Into  God's  harvest ;  I,  that  might 
With  them  have  chosen,  here  below 

Grope  shuddering  at  the  gates  of  night. 

O  glorious  Youth,  that  once  wast  mine  ! 

O  high  Ideal !  all  in  vain 
Ye  enter  at  this  ruined  shrine 

Whence  worship  ne'er  shall  rise  again ; 
The  bat  and  owl  inhabit  here, 

The  snake  nests  in  the  altar-stone, 
The  sacred  vessels  moulder  near, 

The  image  of  the  God  is  gone. 


THE  OAK 

What  gnarled  stretch,  what  depth  of  shade,  is  his  ! 

There  needs  no  crown  to  mark  the  forest's  king ; 
How  in  his  leaves  outshines  full  summer's  bliss ! 

Sun,  storm,  rain,  dew,  to  him  their  tribute  bring, 
Which  he  with  such  benignant  royalty 

Accepts,  as  overpayeth  what  is  lent ; 
All  nature  seems  his  vassal  proud  to  be, 

And  cunning  only  for  his  ornament. 


206  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


How  towers  he,  too,  amid  the  billowed  snows, 
An  un quelled  exile  from  the  summer's  throne, 

Whose  plain,  uncinctured  front  more  kingly  shows, 
Now  that  the  obscuring  courtier   leaves  are 
flown. 

His  boughs  make  music  of  the  winter  air, 

Jewelled  with  sleet,  like  some  cathedral  front 

Where  clinging  snow-flakes  with  quaint  art  repair 
The  dints  and  furrows  of  time's  envious  brunt. 

How  doth  his  patient  strength  the  rude  March 
wind 

Persuade  to  seem  glad  breaths  of  summer  breeze, 
And  win  the  soil  that  fain  would  be  unkind, 

To  swell  his  revenues  with  proud  increase ! 
He  is  the  gem ;  and  all  the  landscape  wide 

(So  doth  his  grandeur  isolate  the  sense) 
Seems  but  the  setting,  worthless  all  beside, 

An  empty  socket,  were  he  fallen  thence. 

So,  from  oft  converse  with  life's  wintry  gales, 
Should  man  learn  how  to  clasp  with  tougher 

roots 

The  inspiring  earth ;  how  otherwise  avails 
The  leaf -creating  sap  that  sunward  shoots  ? 

So  every  year  that  falls  with  noiseless  flake 
Should  fill  old  scars  up  on  the  storm  ward  side, 

And  make  hoar  age  revered  for  age's  sake, 
Not  for  traditions  of  youth's  leafy  pride. 

So,  from  the  pinched  soil  of  a  churlish  fate, 
True  hearts  compel  the  sap  of  sturdier  growth, 


AMBROSE 


207 


So  between  earth  and  heaven  stand  simply  great, 
That  these  shall  seem  but  their  attendants  both ; 

For  nature's  forces  with  obedient  zeal 
Wait  on  the  rooted  faith  and  oaken  will ; 

As  quickly  the  pretender's  cheat  they  feel, 

And  turn  mad  Pucks  to  flout  and  mock  him  still. 

Lord  !  all  thy  works  are  lessons ;  each  contains 

Some  emblem  of  man's  all-containing  soul ; 
Shall  he  make  fruitless  all  thy  glorious  pains, 

Delving  within  thy  grace  an  eyeless  mole  ? 
Make  me  the  least  of  thy  Dodona-grove, 

Cause  me  some  message  of  thy  truth  to  bring, 
Speak  but  a  word  through  me,  nor  let  thy  love 

Among  my  boughs  disdain  to  perch  and  sing. 


AMBROSE 

Never,  surely,  was  holier  man 

Than  Ambrose,  since  the  world  began  ; 

With  diet  spare  and  raiment  thin 

He  shielded  himself  from  the  father  of  sin  ; 

With  bed  of  iron  and  scourgings  oft, 

His  heart  to  God's  hand  as  wax  made  soft. 

Through  earnest  prayer  and  watchings  long 
He  sought  to  know  'tween  right  and  wrong, 
Much  wrestling  with  the  blessed  Word 
To  make  it  yield  the  sense  of  the  Lord, 
That  he  might  build  a  storm-proof  creed 
To  fold  the  flock  in  at  their  need. 


208 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


At  last  he  builded  a  perfect  faith, 

Fenced  round  about  with  The  Lord  thus  gtylth  / 

To  himself  he  fitted  the  doorway's  size, 

Meted  the  light  to  the  need  of  his  eyes, 

And  knew,  by  a  sure  and  inward  sign, 

That  the  work  of  his  fingers  was  divine. 

Then  Ambrose  said,  44  All  those  shall  die 
The  eternal  death  who  believe  not  as  I ; " 
And  some  were  boiled,  some  burned  in  fire, 
Some  sawn  in  twain,  that  his  heart's  desire, 
For  the  good  of  men's  souls,  might  be  satisfied 
By  the  drawing  of  all  to  the  righteous  side. 

One  day,  as  Ambrose  was  seeking  the  truth 

In  his  lonely  walk,  he  saw  a  youth 

Resting  himself  in  the  shade  of  a  tree ; 

It  had  never  been  granted  him  to  see 

So  shining  a  face,  and  the  good  man  thought 

'T  were  pity  he  should  not  believe  as  he  ought. 

So  he  set  himself  by  the  young  man's  side, 
And  the  state  of  his  soul  with  questions  tried ; 
But  the  heart  of  the  stranger  was  hardened  indeed, 
Nor  received  the  stamp  of  the  one  true  creed ; 
And  the  spirit  of  Ambrose  waxed  sore  to  find 
Such  features  the  porch  of  so  narrow  a  mind. 

44  As  each  beholds  in  cloud  and  fire 

The  shape  that  answers  his  own  desire, 

So  each,"  said  the  youth,  46  in  the  Law  shall  find 

The  figure  and  fashion  of  his  mind ; 


AMBROSE 


209 


And  to  each  in  his  mercy  hath  God  allowed 
His  several  pillar  of  fire  and  cloud." 

The  soul  of  Ambrose  burned  with  zeal 
And  holy  wrath  for  the  young  man's  weal : 
|  Believest  thou  then,  most  wretched  youth," 
Cried  he,  "  a  dividual  essence  in  Truth? 
I  fear  me  thy  heart  is  too  cramped  with  sin 
To  take  the  Lord  in  his  glory  in." 

Now  there  bubbled  beside  them  where  they  stood 
A  fountain  of  waters  sweet  and  good  ; 
The  youth  to  the  streamlet's  brink  drew  near 
Saying,  "  Ambrose,  thou  maker  of  creeds,  look 
here !  " 

Six  vases  of  crystal  then  he  took, 

And  set  them  along  the  edge  of  the  brook, 

I  As  into  these  vessels  the  water  I  pour, 
There  shall  one  hold  less,  another  more, 
And  the  water  unchanged,  in  every  case, 
Shall  put  on  the  figure  of  the  vase  ; 
O  thou,  who  wouldst  unity  make  through  strife, 
Canst  thou  fit  this  sign  to  the  Water  of  Life?" 

When  Ambrose  looked  up,  he  stood  alone, 

The  youth  and  the  stream  and  the  vases  were  gone  ; 

But  he  knew,  by  a  sense  of  humbled  grace, 

He  had  talked  with  an  angel  face  to  face, 

And  felt  his  heart  change  inwardly, 

As  he  fell  on  his  knees  beneath  the  tree. 


210 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


ABOVE  AND  BELOW 
I. 

O  dwelleks  in  the  valley-land, 

Who  in  deep  twilight  grope  and  cower9 
Till  the  slow  mountain's  dial-hand 

Shorten  to  noon's  triumphal  hour, 
While  ye  sit  idle,  do  ye  think 

The  Lord's  great  work  sits  idle  too  ? 
That  light  dare  not  o'erleap  the  brink 

Of  morn,  because 't  is  dark  with  you  ? 

Though  yet  your  valleys  skulk  in  night, 

In  God's  ripe  fields  the  day  is  cried, 
And  reapers,  with  their  sickles  bright, 

Troop,  singing,  down  the  mountain-side : 
Come  up,  and  feel  what  health  there  is 

In  the  frank  Dawn's  delighted  eyes, 
As,  bending  with  a  pitying  kiss, 

The  night-shed  tears  of  Earth  she  dries! 

The  Lord  wants  reapers  :  oh,  mount  up, 

Before  night  comes,  and  says,  "  Too  late  !  " 
Stay  not  for  taking  scrip  or  cup, 

The  Master  hungers  while  ye  wait; 
'T  is  from  these  heights  alone  your  eyes 

The  advancing  spears  of  day  can  see, 
That  o'er  the  eastern  hill-tops  rise, 

To  break  your  long  captivity. 


ABOVE  AND  BELOW 


211 


II. 

Lone  watcher  on  the  mountain-height, 

It  is  right  precious  to  behold 
The  first  long  surf  of  climbing  light 

Flood  all  the  thirsty  east  with  gold ; 
But  we,  who  in  the  shadow  sit, 

Know  also  when  the  day  is  nigh, 
Seeing  thy  shining  forehead  lit 

With  his  inspiring  prophecy. 

Thou  hast  thine  office ;  we  have  ours ; 

God  lacks  not  early  service  here, 
But  what  are  thine  eleventh  hours 

He  counts  with  us  for  morning  cheer; 
Our  day,  for  Him,  is  long  enough, 

And  when  He  giveth  work  to  do, 
The  bruised  reed  is  amply  tough 

To  pierce  the  shield  of  error  through. 

But  not  the  less  do  thou  aspire 

Light's  earlier  messages  to  preach ; 
Keep  back  no  syllable  of  fire, 

Plunge  deep  the  rowels  of  thy  speech. 
Yet  God  deems  not  thine  aeried  sight 

More  worthy  than  our  twilight  dim ; 
For  meek  Obedience,  too,  is  Light, 

And  following  that  is  finding  Him. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


THE  CAPTIVE 

It  was  past  the  liour  of  trysting, 
But  she  lingered  for  him  still ; 

Like  a  child,  the  eager  streamlet 
Leaped  and  laughed  adown  the  hill, 

Happy  to  be  free  at  twilight 
From  its  toiling  at  the  milh 

Then  the  great  moon  on  a  sudden 

Ominous,  and  red  as  blood, 
Startling  as  a  new  creation, 

O'er  the  eastern  hilltop  stood, 
Casting  deep  and  deeper  shadows 

Through  the  mystery  of  the  wood* 

Dread  closed  vast  and  vague  about  her. 
And  her  thoughts  turned  fearfully 

To  her  heart,  if  there  some  shelter 
From  the  silence  there  might  be, 

Like  bare  cedars  leaning  inland 
From  the  blighting  of  the  sea* 

Yet  he  came  not,  and  the  stillness 
Dampened  round  her  like  a  tomb ; 

She  could  feel  cold  eyes  of  spirits 
Looking  on  her  through  the  gloom, 

She  could  hear  the  groping  footsteps 
Of  some  blind,  gigantic  doom. 

Suddenly  the  silence  wavered 
Like  a  light  mist  in  the  wind, 


THE  CAPTIVE 


213 


For  a  voice  broke  gently  through  it, 
Felt  like  sunshine  by  the  blind, 

And  the  dread,  like  mist  in  sunshine, 
Furled  serenely  from  her  mind, 

"  Once  my  love,  my  love  forever, 
Flesh  or  spirit,  still  the  same, 

If  I  failed  at  time  of  try  sting, 

Deem  thou  not  my  faith  to  blame ; 

I,  alas,  was  made  a  captive, 
As  from  Holy  Land  I  came. 

"  On  a  green  spot  in  the  desert, 
Gleaming  like  an  emerald  star, 

Where  a  palm-tree,  in  lone  silence, 
Yearning  for  its  mate  afar, 

Droops  above  a  silver  runnel, 
Slender  as  a  scimitar, 

"  There  thou  'It  find  the  humble  postern 

To  the  castle  of  my  foe ; 
If  thy  love  burn  clear  and  faithful, 

Strike  the  gateway,  green  and  low, 
Ask  to  enter,  and  the  warder 

Surely  will  not  say  thee  no." 

Slept  again  the  aspen  silence, 
But  her  loneliness  was  o'er  ; 

Hound  her  soul  a  motherly  patience 
Clasped  its  arms  f orevermore ; 

From  her  heart  ebbed  back  the  sorrow, 
Leaving  smooth  the  golden  shore. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

Donned  she  now  the  pilgrim  scallop. 
Took  the  pilgrim  staff  in  hand  ; 

Like  a  cloud-shade,  flitting  eastward, 
Wandered  she  o'er  sea  and  land  ; 

And  her  footsteps  in  the  desert 
Fell  like  cool  rain  on  the  sand. 

Soon,  beneath  the  palm-tree*s  shadow, 
Knelt  she  at  the  postern  low  ; 

And  thereat  she  knocked  full  gently, 
Fearing  much  the  warder's  no  ; 

All  her  heart  stood  still  and  listened, 
As  the  door  swung  backward  slow. 

There  she  saw  no  surly  warder 
With  an  eye  like  bolt  and  bar ; 

Through  her  soul  a  sense  of  music 
Throbbed,  and,  like  a  guardian  Lar, 

On  the  threshold  stood  an  angel, 
Bright  and  silent  as  a  star. 

Fairest  seemed  he  of  God's  seraphs, 

And  her  spirit,  lily-wise, 
Opened  when  he  turned  upon  her 

The  deep  welcome  of  his  eyes, 
Sending  upward  to  that  sunlight 

All  its  dew  for  sacrifice. 

Then  she  heard  a  voice  come  onward 
Singing  with  a  rapture  new, 

As  Eve  heard  the  songs  in  Eden, 
Dropping  earthward  with  the  dew ; 


THE  BIRCH-TREE 


215 


Well  she  knew  the  happy  singer, 
Well  the  happy  song  she  knew. 

Forward  leaped  she  o'er  the  threshold, 

Eager  as  a  glancing  surf  ; 
Fell  from  her  the  spirit's  languor, 

Fell  from  her  the  body's  scurf ; 
'Neath  the  palm  next  day  some  Arabs 

Found  a  corpse  upon  the  turf. 


THE  BIRCH-TREE 

Rippling  through  thy  branches  goes  the  sun- 
shine, 

Among  thy  leaves  that  palpitate  forever ; 
Ovid  in  thee  a  pining  Nymph  had  prisoned, 
The  soul  once  of  some  tremulous  inland  river, 
Quivering  to  tell  her  woe,  but,  ah !  dumb,  dumb 
forever ! 

While  all  the  forest,  witched  with  slumberous 
moonshine, 

Holds  up  its  leaves  in  happy,  happy  stillness, 
Waiting  the  dew,  with  breath  and  pulse  suspended, 
I  hear  afar  thy  whispering,  gleamy  islands, 
And  track  thee  wakeful  still  amid  the  wide-hung 
silence. 

On  the  brink  of  some  wood-nestled  lakelet, 
Thy  foliage,  like  the  tresses  of  a  Dryad, 
Dripping  round  thy  slim  white  stem,  whose  shadow 


216 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


Slopes  quivering  down  the  water's  dusky  quiet, 
Thou  shrink'st  as  on  her  bath's  edge  would  some 
startled  Naiad. 

Thou  art  the  go-between  of  rustic  lovers  ; 
Thy  white  bark  has  their  secrets  in  its  keeping ; 
Reuben  writes  here  the  happy  name  of  Patience, 
And  thy  lithe  boughs  hang  murmuring  and  weep- 
ing 

Above  her,  as  she  steals  the  mystery  from  thy  keep- 
ing. 

Thou  art  to  me  like  my  beloved  maiden, 
So  frankly  coy,  so  full  of  trembly  confidences ; 
Thy  shadow  scarce  seems  shade,  thy  pattering  leaf- 
lets 

Sprinkle  their  gathered  sunshine  o'er  my  senses, 
And  Nature  gives  me  all  her  summer  confidences. 

Whether  my  heart  with  hope  or  sorrow  tremble, 
Thou  sympathizest  still ;  wild  and  unquiet, 
I  fling  me  down  ;  thy  ripple,  like  a  river, 
Flows  valleyward,  where  calmness  is,  and  by  it 
My  heart  is  floated  down  into  the  land  of  quiet. 


AN  INTERVIEW  WITH  MILES  STANDISH 

I  SAT  one  evening  in  my  room, 

In  that  sweet  hour  of  twilight 
When  blended  thoughts,  half  light,  half  gloom, 

Throng  through  the  spirit's  skylight ; 


INTERVIEW  WITH  MILES  STANDI SH  217 

The  flames  by  fits  curled  round  the  bars, 

Or  up  the  chimney  crinkled, 
While  embers  dropped  like  falling  stars, 

And  in  the  ashes  tinkled. 

I  sat  and  mused ;  the  fire  burned  low, 

And,  o'er  my  senses  stealing, 
Crept  something  of  the  ruddy  glow 

That  bloomed  on  wall  and  ceiling ; 
My  pictures  (they  are  very  few, 

The  heads  of  ancient  wise  men) 
Smoothed  down  their  knotted  fronts,  and  grew 

As  rosy  as  excisemen. 

My  antique  high-backed  Spanish  chair 

Felt  thrills  through  wood  and  leather, 
That  had  been  strangers  since  whilere, 

'Mid  Andalusian  heather, 
The  oak  that  built  its  sturdy  frame 

His  happy  arms  stretched  over 
The  ox  whose  fortunate  hide  became 

The  bottom's  polished  cover. 

It  came  out  in  that  famous  bark, 

That  brought  our  sires  intrepid, 
Capacious  as  another  ark 

For  furniture  decrepit ; 
For,  as  that  saved  of  bird  and  beast 

A  pair  for  propagation, 
So  has  the  seed  of  these  increased 

And  furnished  half  the  nation. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


Kings  sit,  they  say,  in  slippery  seats ; 

But  those  slant  precipices 
Of  ice  the  northern  voyager  meets 

Less  slippery  are  than  this  is  ; 
To  cling  therein  would  pass  the  wit 

Of  royal  man  or  woman, 
And  wThatsoe'er  can  stay  in  it 

Is  more  or  less  than  human. 

I  offer  to  all  bores  this  perch, 

Dear  well-intentioned  people 
With  heads  as  void  as  week-day  church, 

Tongues  longer  than  the  steeple ; 
To  folks  with  missions,  whose  gaunt  eyes 

See  golden  ages  rising,  — 
Salt  of  the  earth !  in  what  queer  Guys 

Thou  'rt  fond  of  crystallizing  ! 

My  wonder,  then,  was  not  unmixed 

With  merciful  suggestion, 
When,  as  my  roving  eyes  grew  fixed 

Upon  the  chair  in  question, 
I  saw  its  trembling  arms  enclose 

A  figure  grim  and  rusty, 
Whose  doublet  plain  and  plainer  hose 

Were  something  worn  and  dusty. 

Now  even  such  men  as  Nature  forms 

Merely  to  fill  the  street  with, 
Once  turned  to  ghosts  by  hungry  worms, 
Are  serious  things  to  meet  with ; 


INTERVIEW  WITH  MILES  STANDISH  219 

Your  penitent  spirits  are  no  jokes, 

And,  though  I 'm  not  averse  to 
A  quiet  shade,  even  they  are  folks 

One  cares  not  to  speak  first  to. 

Who  knows,  thought  I,  but  he  has  come, 

By  Charon  kindly  ferried, 
To  tell  me  of  a  mighty  sum 

Behind  my  wainscot  buried  ? 
There  is  a  buccaneerish  air 

About  that  garb  outlandish  — 
Just  then  the  ghost  drew  up  his  chair 

And  said,  "  My  name  is  Standish. 

"  I  come  from  Plymouth,  deadly  bored 

With  toasts,  and  songs,  and  speeches, 
As  long  and  flat  as  my  old  sword, 

As  threadbare  as  my  breeches : 
They  understand  us  Pilgrims  !  they, 

Smooth  men  with  rosy  faces, 
Strength's  knots  and  gnarls  all  pared  away, 

And  varnish  in  their  places  ! 

"  We  had  some  toughness  in  our  grain, 

The  eye  to  rightly  see  us  is 
Not  just  the  one  that  lights  the  brain 

Of  drawing-room  Tyrtaeuses  : 
They  talk  about  their  Pilgrim  blood, 

Their  birthright  high  and  holy ! 
A  mountain-stream  that  ends  in  mud 

Methinks  is  melancholy. 


220 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


"  He  had  stiff  knees,  the  Puritan, 

That  were  not  good  at  bending ; 
The  homespun  dignity  of  man 

He  thought  was  worth  defending ; 
He  did  not,  with  his  pinchbeck  ore, 

His  country's  shame  forgotten, 
Gild  Freedom's  coffin  o'er  and  o'er, 

When  all  within  was  rotten. 

44  These  loud  ancestral  boasts  of  yours, 

How  can  they  else  than  vex  us  ? 
Where  were  your  dinner  orators 

When  slavery  grasped  at  Texas  ? 
Dumb  on  his  knees  was  every  one 

That  now  is  bold  as  Caesar ; 
Mere  pegs  to  hang  an  office  on 

Such  stalwart  men  as  these  are." 

"  Good  sir,"  I  said,  "  you  seem  much  stirred  ; 

The  sacred  compromises  —  " 
44  Now  God  confound  the  dastard  word ! 
My  gall  thereat  arises  : 
Northward  it  hath  this  sense  alone, 

That  you,  your  conscience  blinding, 
Shall  bow  your  fool's  nose  to  the  stone, 
When  slavery  feels  like  grinding. 

M  'T  is  shame  to  see  such  painted  sticks 
In  Vane's  and  Winthrop's  places, 
To  see  your  spirit  of  Seventy-six 
Drag  humbly  in  the  traces, 


INTERVIEW  WITH  MILES  STANDISH 

With  slavery's  lash  upon  her  back, 

And  herds  of  office-holders 
To  shout  applause,  as,  with  a  crack, 

It  peels  her  patient  shoulders. 

"  We  forefathers  to  such  a  rout !  — 
No,  by  my  faith  in  God's  word !  " 
Half  rose  the  ghost,  and  half  drew  out 

The  ghost  of  his  old  broadsword, 
Then  thrust  it  slowly  back  again, 
And  said,  with  reverent  gesture, 
"  No,  Freedom,  no  !  blood  should  not  stain 
The  hem  of  thy  white  vesture. 

"  I  feel  the  soul  in  me  draw  near 

The  mount  of  prophesying ; 
In  this  bleak  wilderness  I  hear 

A  J ohn  the  Baptist  crying  ; 
Far  in  the  east  I  see  upleap 

The  streaks  of  first  forewarning, 
And  they  who  sowed  the  light  shall  reap 

The  golden  sheaves  of  morning. 

"  Child  of  our  travail  and  our  woe, 

Light  in  our  day  of  sorrow, 
Through  my  rapt  spirit  I  foreknow 

The  glory  of  thy  morrow ; 
I  hear  great  steps,  that  through  the  shade 

Draw  nigher  still  and  nigher, 
And  voices  call  like  that  which  bade 

The  prophet  come  up  higher." 


222 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


I  looked,  no  form  mine  eyes  could  find, 

I  heard  the  red  cock  crowing, 
And  through  my  window-chinks  the  wind 

A  dismal  tune  was  blowing ; 
Thought  I,  My  neighbor  Buckingham 

Hath  somewhat  in  him  gritty, 
Some  Pilgrim-stuff  that  hates  all  sham, 

And  he  will  print  my  ditty. 


ON  THE  CAPTURE  OF   FUGITIVE  SLAVES 
NEAR  WASHINGTON 

Look  on  who  will  in  apathy,  and  stifle  they  who 
can, 

The  sympathies,  the  hopes,  the  words,  that  make 
man  truly  man  ; 

Let  those  whose  hearts  are  dungeoned  up  with  in- 
terest or  with  ease 

Consent  to  hear  with  quiet  pulse  of  loathsome 
deeds  like  these ! 

I  first  drew  in  New  England's  air,  and  from  her 
hardy  breast 

Sucked  in  the  tyrant-hating  milk  that  will  not  let 
me  rest ; 

And  if  my  words  seem  treason  to  the  dullard  and 
the  tame, 

'T  is  but  my  Bay-State  dialect,  —  our  fathers 
spake  the  same ! 

Shame  on  the  costly  mockery  of  piling  stone  on 
stone 


CAPTURE  OF  FUGITIVE  SLAVES  223 

To  those  who  won  our  liberty,  the  heroes  dead  and 
gone, 

While  we  look  coldly  on  and  see  law-shielded  ruf- 
fians slay 

The  men  who  fain  would  win  their  own,  the  heroes 
of  to-day ! 

Are  we  pledged  to  craven  silence  ?  Oh,  fling  it  to 
the  wind, 

The  parchment  wall  that  bars  us  from  the  least  of 
human  kind, 

That  makes  us  cringe  and  temporize,  and  dumbly 

stand  at  rest, 
While  Pity's  burning  flood  of  words  is  red-hot  in 

the  breast ! 

Though  we  break  our  fathers'  promise,  we  have 
nobler  duties  first ; 

The  traitor  to  Humanity  is  the  traitor  most  ac- 
cursed ; 

Man  is  more  than  Constitutions  ;  better  rot  beneath 
the  sod, 

Than  be  true  to  Church  and  State  while  we  are 
doubly  false  to  God  ! 

We  owe  allegiance  to  the  State  ;  but  deeper,  truer, 
more, 

To  the  sympathies  that  God  hath  set  within  our 
spirit's  core  ; 

Our  country  claims  our  fealty ;  we  grant  it  so,  but 
then 

Before  Man  made  us  citizens,  great  Nature  made 
us  men. 


224  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

He 's  true  to  God  who 's  true  to  man ;  wherever 
wrong  is  done, 

To  the  humblest  and  the  weakest,  'neath  the  all- 
beholding  sun, 

That  wrong  is  also  done  to  us  ;  and  they  are  slaves 
most  base, 

Whose  love  of  right  is  for  themselves,  and  not  for 
all  their  race. 

God  works  for  all.  Ye  cannot  hem  the  hope  of 
being  free 

With  parallels  of  latitude,  with  mountain-range 
or  sea. 

Put  golden  padlocks  on  Truth's  lips,  be  callous  as 
ye  will, 

From  soul  to  soul,  o'er  all  the  world,  leaps  one  elec- 
tric thrill. 

Chain  down  your  slaves  with  ignorance,  ye  cannot 
keep  apart, 

With  all  your  craft  of  tyranny,  the  human  heart 
from  heart : 

When  first  the  Pilgrims  landed  on  the  Bay  State's 
iron  shore, 

The  word  went  forth  that  slavery  should  one  day 
be  no  more. 

Out  from  the  land  of  bondage  'tis  decreed  our 

slaves  shall  go, 
And  signs  to  us  are  offered,  as  erst  to  Pharaoh ; 
If  we  are  blind,  their  exodus,  like  Israel's  of  yore, 
Through  a  Red  Sea  is  doomed  to  be,  whose  surges 

are  of  gore. 


TO  THE  DANDELION 


225 


'T  is  ours  to  save  our  brethren,  with  peace  and 
love  to  win 

Their  darkened  hearts  from  error,  ere  they  harden 
it  to  sin ; 

But  if  before  his  duty  man  with  listless  spirit 
stands, 

Erelong  the  Great  Avenger  takes  the  work  from 
out  his  hands. 


TO  THE  DANDELION 

Dear  common  flower,  that  grow'st  beside  the 
way, 

Fringing  the  dusty  road  with  harmless  gold, 

First  pledge  of  blithesome  May, 
Which  children  pluck,  and,  full  of  pride  uphold, 

High-hearted  buccaneers,  o'erjoyed  that  they 
An  Eldorado  in  the  grass  have  found, 

Which  not  the  rich  earth's  ample  round 
May  match  in  wealth,  thou  art  more  dear  to  me 
Than  all  the  prouder  summer-blooms  may  be. 

Gold  such  as  thine  ne'er  drew  the  Spanish  prow 
Through  the  primeval  hush  of  Indian  seas, 

Nor  wrinkled  the  lean  brow 
Of  age,  to  rob  the  lover's  heart  of  ease  ; 

'T  is  the  Spring's  largess,  which  she  scatters  now 
To  rich  and  poor  alike,  with  lavish  hand, 
Though  most  hearts  never  understand 
To  take  it  at  God's  value,  but  pass  by 
The  offered  wealth  with  unrewarded  eye. 


226 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


Thou  art  my  tropics  and  mine  Italy ; 
To  look  at  thee  unlocks  a  warmer  clime ; 

The  eyes  thou  givest  me 
Are  in  the  heart,  and  heed  not  space  or  time  : 

Not  in  mid  J une  the  golden-cuirassed  bee 
Feels  a  more  summer-like  warm  ravishment 
In  the  white  lily's  breezy  tent, 
His  fragrant  Sybaris,  than  I,  when  first 
From  the  dark  green  thy  yellow  circles  burst. 

Then  think  I  of  deep  shadows  on  the  grass, 
Of  meadows  where  in  sun  the  cattle  graze, 

Where,  as  the  breezes  pass, 
The  gleaming  rushes  lean  a  thousand  ways, 
Of  leaves  that  slumber  in  a  cloudy  mass, 
Or  whiten  in  the  wind,  of  waters  blue 

That  from  the  distance  sparkle  through 
Some  woodland  gap,  and  of  a  sky  above, 
Where  one  white  cloud  like  a  stray  lamb  doth 
move. 

My  childhood's  earliest  thoughts  are  linked  with 
thee ; 

The  sight  of  thee  calls  back  the  robin's  song, 

Who,  from  the  dark  old  tree 
Beside  the  door,  sang  clearly  all  day  long, 

And  I,  secure  in  childish  piety, 
Listened  as  if  I  heard  an  angel  sing 

With  news  from  heaven,  which  he  could  bring 
Fresh  every  day  to  my  untainted  ears 
When  birds  and  flowers  and  I  were  happy  peers. 


THE  GHOST-SEER 


227 


How  like  a  prodigal  doth  nature  seem, 
When  thou,  for  all  thy  gold,  so  common  art ! 

Thou  teachest  me  to  deem 
More  sacredly  of  every  human  heart, 

Since  each  reflects  in  joy  its  scanty  gleam 
Of  heaven,  and  could  some  wondrous  secret  show, 
Did  we  but  pay  the  love  we  owe, 
And  with  a  child's  undoubting  wisdom  look 
On  all  these  living  pages  of  God's  book. 


THE  GHOST-SEER 

Ye  who,  passing  graves  by  night, 

Glance  not  to  the  left  or  right, 

Lest  a  spirit  should  arise, 

Cold  and  white,  to  freeze  your  eyes, 

Some  weak  phantom,  which  your  doubt 

Shapes  upon  the  dark  without 

From  the  dark  within,  a  guess 

At  the  spirit's  deathlessness, 

Which  ye  entertain  with  fear 

In  your  self -built  dungeon  here, 

Where  ye  sell  your  God-given  lives 

Just  for  gold  to  buy  you  gyves,  — 

Ye  without  a  shudder  meet 

In  the  city's  noonday  street, 

Spirits  sadder  and  more  dread 

Than  from  out  the  clay  have  fled, 

Buried,  beyond  hope  of  light, 

In  the  body's  haunted  night ! 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


See  ye  not  that  woman  pale  ? 
There  are  bloodhounds  on  her  trail ! 
Bloodhounds  two,  all  gaunt  and  lean, 
(For  the  soul  their  scent  is  keen,) 
Want  and  Sin,  and  Sin  is  last, 
They  have  followed  far  and  fast ; 
Want  gave  tongue,  and,  at  her  howl, 
Sin  awakened  with  a  growl. 
Ah,  poor  girl !  she  had  a  right 
To  a  blessing  from  the  light ; 
Title-deeds  to  sky  and  earth 
God  gave  to  her  at  her  birth  ; 
But,  before  they  were  enjoyed, 
Poverty  had  made  them  void, 
And  had  drunk  the  sunshine  up 
From  all  nature's  ample  cup, 
Leaving  her  a  first-born's  share 
In  the  dregs  of  darkness  there. 
Often,  on  the  sidewalk  bleak, 
Hungry,  all  alone,  and  weak, 
She  has  seen,  in  night  and  storm, 
Rooms  o'erflow  with  firelight  warm, 
Which,  outside  the  window-glass, 
Doubled  all  the  cold,  alas ! 
Till  each  ray  that  on  her  fell 
Stabbed  her  like  an  icicle, 
And  she  almost  loved  the  wail 
Of  the  bloodhounds  on  her  trail. 
Till  the  floor  becomes  her  bier, 
She  shall  feel  their  pantings  near, 
Close  upon  her  very  heels, 
Spite  of  all  the  din  of  wheels ; 


THE  GHOST-SEER 


229 


Shivering  on  her  pallet  poor, 
She  shall  hear  them  at  the  door 
Whine  and  scratch  to  be  let  in, 
Sister  bloodhounds,  Want  and  Sin  ! 

Hark !  that  rustle  of  a  dress, 

Stiff  with  lavish  costliness ! 

Here  comes  one  whose  cheek  would  flush 

But  to  have  her  garment  brush 

'Gainst  the  girl  whose  fingers  thin 

Wove  the  weary  broidery  in, 

Bending  backward  from  her  toil, 

Lest  her  tears  the  silk  might  soil, 

And,  in  midnights  chill  and  murk, 

Stitched  her  life  into  the  work, 

Shaping  from  her  bitter  thought 

Heart' s-ease  and  forget-me-not, 

Satirizing  her  despair 

With  the  emblems  woven  there. 

Little  doth  the  wearer  heed 

Of  the  heart-break  in  the  brede ; 

A  hyena  by  her  side 

Skulks,  down-looking,  —  it  is  Pride. 

He  digs  for  her  in  the  earth, 

Where  lie  all  her  claims  of  birth, 

With  his  foul  paws  rooting  o'er 

Some  long-buried  ancestor, 

Who,  perhaps  a  statue  won 

By  the  ill  deeds  he  had  done, 

By  the  innocent  blood  he  shed, 

By  the  desolation  spread 

Over  happy  villages, 

Blotting  out  the  smile  of  peace. 


230 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


There  walks  Judas,  he  who  sold 
Yesterday  his  Lord  for  gold, 
Sold  God's  presence  in  his  heart 
For  a  proud  step  in  the  mart ; 
He  hath  dealt  in  flesh  and  blood ; 
At  the  bank  his  name  is  good ; 
At  the  bank,  and  only  there, 
?T  is  a  marketable  ware. 
In  his  eyes  that  stealthy  gleam 
Was  not  learned  of  sky  or  stream, 
But  it  has  the  cold,  hard  glint 
Of  new  dollars  from  the  mint. 
Open  now  your  spirit's  eyes, 
Look  through  that  poor  clay  disguise 
Which  has  thickened,  day  by  day, 
Till  it  keeps  all  light  at  bay, 
And  his  soul  in  pitchy  gloom 
Gropes  about  its  narrow  tomb, 
From  whose  dank  and  slimy  walls 
Drop  by  drop  the  horror  falls. 
Look !  a  serpent  lank  and  cold 
Hugs  his  spirit  fold  on  fold ; 
From  his  heart,  all  day  and  night, 
It  doth  suck  God's  blessed  light. 
Drink  it  will,  and  drink  it  must, 
Till  the  cup  holds  naught  but  dust ; 
All  day  long  he  hears  it  hiss, 
Writhing  in  its  fiendish  bliss  ; 
All  night  long  he  sees  its  eyes 
Flicker  with  foul  ecstasies, 
As  the  spirit  ebbs  away 
Into  the  absorbing  clay. 


THE  GHOST-SEER 


231 


Who  is  he  that  skulks,  afraid 

Of  the  trust  he  has  betrayed, 

Shuddering  if  perchance  a  gleam 

Of  old  nobleness  should  stream  Jj 

Through  the  pent,  unwholesome  room, 

Where  his  shrunk  soul  cowers  in  gloom, 

Spirit  sad  beyond  the  rest 

By  more  instinct  for  the  best  ? 

'T  is  a  poet  who  was  sent 

For  a  bad  world's  punishment. 

By  compelling  it  to  see 

Golden  glimpses  of  To  Be, 

By  compelling  it  to  hear 

Songs  that  prove  the  angels  near ; 

Who  was  sent  to  be  the  tongue 

Of  the  weak  and  spirit-wrung, 

Whence  the  fiery- winged  Despair 

In  men's  shrinking  eyes  might  flare. 

'T  is  our  hope  doth  fashion  us 

To  base  use  or  glorious  : 

He  who  might  have  been  a  lark 

Of  Truth's  morning,  from  the  dark 

Raining  down  melodious  hope 

Of  a  freer,  broader  scope, 

Aspirations,  prophecies, 

Of  the  spirit's  full  sunrise, 

Chose  to  be  a  bird  of  night, 

That,  with  eyes  refusing  light, 

Hooted  from  some  hollow  tree 

Of  the  world's  idolatry. 

'T  is  his  punishment  to  hear 

Sweep  of  eager  pinions  near, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

And  his  own  vain  wings  to  feel 

Drooping  downward  to  his  heel, 

All  their  grace  and  import  lost, 

Burdening  his  weary  ghost : 

Ever  walking  by  his  side 

He  must  see  his  angel  guide, 

Who  at  intervals  doth  turn 

Looks  on  him  so  sadly  stern, 

With  such  ever-new  surprise 

Of  hushed  anguish  in  her  eyes, 

That  it  seems  the  light  of  day 

From  around  him  shrinks  away, 

Or  drops  blunted  from  the  wall 

Built  around  him  by  his  fall. 

Then  the  mountains,  whose  white  peaks 

Catch  the  morning's  earliest  streaks, 

He  must  see,  where  prophets  sit, 

Turning  east  their  faces  lit, 

Whence,  with  footsteps  beautiful, 

To  the  earth,  yet  dim  and  dull, 

They  the  gladsome  tidings  bring 

Of  the  sunlight's  hastening : 

Never  can  these  hills  of  bliss 

Be  o'erclimbed  by  feet  like  his ! 

But  enough  !  Oh,  do  not  dare 
From  the  next  the  veil  to  tear, 
Woven  of  station,  trade,  or  dress, 
More  obscene  than  nakedness, 
Wherewith  plausible  culture  drapes 
Fallen  Nature's  myriad  shapes  ! 
Let  us  rather  love  to  mark 


STUDIES  FOR  TWO  HEADS 


How  the  unextinguished  spark 
Still  gleams  through  the  thin  disguise 
Of  our  customs,  pomps,  and  lies, 
And,  not  seldom  blown  to  flame, 
Vindicates  its  ancient  claim. 


STUDIES  FOR  TWO  HEADS 
I. 

Some  sort  of  heart  I  know  is  hers,  — 
I  chanced  to  feel  her  pulse  one  night ] 

A  brain  she  has  that  never  errs, 
And  yet  is  never  nobly  right ; 

It  does  not  leap  to  great  results, 
But,  in  some  corner  out  of  sight, 
Suspects  a  spot  of  latent  blight, 
And,  o'er  the  impatient  infinite, 

She  bargains,  haggles,  and  consults. 

Her  eye,  —  it  seems  a  chemic  test 

And  drops  upon  you  like  an  acid ; 
It  bites  you  with  unconscious  zest, 

So  clear  and  bright,  so  coldly  placid ; 
It  holds  you  quietly  aloof, 

It  holds,  —  and  yet  it  does  not  win  you 
It  merely  puts  you  to  the  proof 

And  sorts  what  qualities  are  in  you ; 
It  smiles,  but  never  brings  you  nearer, 

It  lights,  —  her  nature  draws  not  nigh ; 
'T  is  but  that  yours  is  growing  clearer 


234  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


To  her  assays ;  —  yes,  try  and  try, 
You  '11  get  no  deeper  than  her  eye* 

There,  you  are  classified :  she 's  gone 

Far,  far  away  into  herself  ; 
Each  with  its  Latin  label  on, 
Your  poor  components,  one  by  one. 

Are  laid  upon  their  proper  shelf 
In  her  compact  and  ordered  mind, 
And  what  of  you  is  left  behind 
Is  no  more  to  her  than  the  wind ; 
In  that  clear  brain,  which,  day  and  night, 

No  movement  of  the  heart  e'er,  jostles, 
Her  friends  are  ranged  on  left  and  right,  — 
Here,  silex,  hornblende,  sienite ; 

There,  animal  remains  and  fossils. 

And  yet,  O  subtile  analyst, 

That  canst  each  property  detect 

Of  mood  or  grain,  that  canst  untwist 
Each  tangled  skein  of  intellect, 

And  with  thy  scalpel  eyes  lay  bare 

Each  mental  nerve  more  fine  than  air,  — > 
O  brain  exact,  that  in  thy  scales 

Canst  weigh  the  sun  and  never  err, 
For  once  thy  patient  science  fails, 
One  problem  still  defies  thy  art ;  — 

Thou  never  canst  compute  for  her 

The  distance  and  diameter 
Of  any  simple  human  heart. 


STUDIES  FOR  TWO  HEADS 


235 


II. 

Hear  him  but  speak,  and  you  will  feel 
The  shadows  of  the  Portico 

Over  your  tranquil  spirit  steal, 
To  modidate  all  joy  and  woe 
To  one  subdued,  subduing  glow ; 

Above  our  squabbling  business-hours, 

Like  Phidian  Jove's,  his  beauty  lowers, 

His  nature  satirizes  ours  ; 

A  form  and  front  of  Attic  grace, 
He  shames  the  higgling  market-place, 

And  dwarfs  our  more  mechanic  powers. 

What  throbbing  verse  can  fitly  render 
That  face  so  pure,  so  trembling-tender  ? 

Sensation  glimmers  through  its  rest, 
It  speaks  unmanacled  by  words, 

A  s  full  of  motion  as  a  nest 
That  palpitates  with  unfledged  birds  ; 

'T  is  likest  to  Bethesda's  stream, 
Forewarned  through  all  its  thrilling  springs, 

White  with  the  angel's  coming  gleam, 
And  rippled  with  his  fanning  wings. 

Hear  him  unfold  his  plots  and  plans, 
And  larger  destinies  seem  man's ; 
You  conjure  from  his  glowing  face 
The  omen  of  a  fairer  race  ; 
With  one  grand  trope  he  boldly  spans 

The  gulf  wherein  so  many  fall, 

'Twixt  possible  and  actual ; 
His  first  swift  word,  talaria-shod, 


236  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


Exuberant  with  conscious  God, 
Out  of  the  choir  of  planets  blots 
The  present  earth  with  all  its  spots. 

Himself  unshaken  as  the  sky, 

His  words,  like  whirlwinds,  spin  on  high 

Systems  and  creeds  pellmell  together ; 
'T  is  strange  as  to  a  deaf  man's  eye, 
While  trees  uprooted  splinter  by, 

The  dumb  turmoil  of  stormy  weather : 

Less  of  iconoclast  than  shaper, 
His  spirit,  safe  behind  the  reach 
Of  the  tornado  of  his  speech, 

Burns  calmly  as  a  glowworm's  taper. 

So  great  in  speech,  but,  ah !  in  act 

So  overrun  with  vermin  troubles, 
The  coarse,  sharp-cornered,  ugly  fact 

Of  life  collapses  all  his  bubbles  : 
Had  he  but  lived  in  Plato's  day, 

He  might,  unless  my  fancy  errs, 
Have  shared  that  golden  voice's  sway 

O'er  barefooted  philosophers. 
Our  nipping  climate  hardly  suits 
The  ripening  of  ideal  fruits : 
His  theories  vanquish  us  all  summer, 
But  winter  makes  him  dumb  and  dumber ; 
To  see  him  mid  life's  needful  things 

Is  something  painfully  bewildering; 
He  seems  an  angel  with  clipt  wings 

Tied  to  a  mortal  wife  and  children, 
And  by  a  brother  seraph  taken 


ON  A  PORTRAIT  OF  DANTE 


237 


In  the  act  of  eating  eggs  and  bacon. 
Like  a  clear  fountain,  his  desire 

Exults  and  leaps  toward  the  light, 
In  every  drop  it  says  "  Aspire  !  " 

Striving  for  more  ideal  height ; 
And  as  the  fountain,  falling  thence, 

Crawls  baffled  through  the  common  gutter, 
So,  from  his  speech's  eminence, 
He  shrinks  into  the  present  tense, 

Unkinged  by  foolish  bread  and  butter. 

Yet  smile  not,  worldling,  for  in  deeds 

Not  all  of  life  that 's  brave  and  wise  is ; 
He  strews  an  ampler  future's  seeds, 

'T  is  your  fault  if  no  harvest  rises ; 
Smooth  back  the  sneer ;  for  is  it  naught 

That  all  he  is  and  has  is  Beauty's  ? 
By  soul  the  soul's  gains  must  be  wrought, 
The  Actual  claims  our  coarser  thought, 

The  Ideal  hath  its  higher  duties. 


ON  A  PORTRAIT  OF  DANTE  BY  GIOTTO 

Can  this  be  thou  who,  lean  and  pale, 

With  such  immitigable  eye 
Didst  look  upon  those  writhing  souls  in  bale, 

And  note  each  vengeance,  and  pass  by 
Unmoved,  save  when  thy  heart  by  chance 
Cast  backward  one  forbidden  glance, 

And  saw  Francesca,  with  child's  glee, 


238  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


Subdue  and  mount  thy  wild-horse  knee 
And  with  proud  hands  control  its  fiery  prance  ? 

With  half-drooped  lids,  and  smooth,  round  brow, 

And  eye  remote,  that  inly  sees 
Fair  Beatrice's  spirit  wandering  now 

In  some  sea-lulled  Hesperides, 
Thou  movest  through  the  jarrin j  street, 
Secluded  from  the  noise  of  feet 

By  her  gift-blossom  in  thy  hand, 

Thy  branch  of  palm  from  Holy  Land ;  — 
No  trace  is  here  of  ruin's  fiery  sleet. 

Yet  there  is  something  round  thy  lips 

That  prophesies  the  coming  doom, 
The  soft,  gray  herald-shadow  ere  the  eclipse 

Notches  the  perfect  disk  with  gloom ; 
A  something  that  would  banish  thee, 
And  thine  untamed  pursuer  be, 

From  men  and  their  unworthy  fates, 

Though  Florence  had  not  shut  her  gates, 
And  Grief  had  loosed  her  clutch  and  let  thee  free. 

Ah  !  he  who  follows  fearlessly 

The  beckonings  of  a  poet-heart 
Shall  wander,  and  without  the  world's  decree, 

A  banished  man  in  field  and  mart ; 
Harder  than  Florence'  walls  the  bar 
Which  with  deaf  sternness  holds  him  far 

From  home  and  friends,  till  death's  release, 

And  makes  his  only  prayer  for  peace, 
Like  thine,  scarred  veteran  of  a  lifelong  war ! 


DEATH  OF  A  FRIEND'S  CHILD  239 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  FRIEND'S  CHILD 

Death  never  came  so  nigh  to  me  before, 

Nor  showed  me  his  mild  face  :  oft  had  I  mused 

Of  calm  and  peace  and  safe  forgetfulness, 

Of  folded  hands,  closed  eyes,  and  heart  at  rest, 

And  slumber  sound  beneath  a  flowery  turf, 

Of  faults  forgotten,  and  an  inner  place 

Kept  sacred  for  us  in  the  heart  of  friends  ; 

But  these  were  idle  fancies,  satisfied 

With  the  mere  husk  of  this  great  mystery, 

And  dwelling  in  the  outward  shows  of  things. 

Heaven  is  not  mounted  to  on  wings  of  dreams, 

Nor  doth  the  unthankful  happiness  of  youth 

Aim  thitherward,  but  floats  from  bloom  to  bloom, 

With  earth's  warm  patch  of  sunshine  well  content : 

'T  is  sorrow  builds  the  shining  ladder  up, 

Whose  golden  rounds  are  our  calamities, 

Whereon  our  firm  feet  planting,  nearer  God 

The  spirit  climbs,  and  hath  its  eyes  unsealed. 

True  is  it  that  Death's  face  seems  stern  and  cold, 

When  he  is  sent  to  summon  those  we  love, 

But  all  God's  angels  come  to  us  disguised ; 

Sorrow  and  sickness,  poverty  and  death, 

One  after  other  lift  their  frowning  masks, 

And  we  behold  the  seraph's  face  beneath, 

All  radiant  with  the  glory  and  the  calm 

Of  having  looked  upon  the  front  of  God. 

With  every  anguish  of  our  earthly  part 

The  spirit's  sight  grows  clearer ;  this  was  meant 


240  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


When  Jesus  touched  the  blind  man's  lids  with  clay. 
Life  is  the  jailer,  Death  the  angel  sent 
To  draw  the  unwilling  bolts  and  set  us  free. 
He  flings  not  ope  the  ivory  gate  of  Rest,  — 
Only  the  fallen  spirit  knocks  at  that,  — 
But  to  benigner  regions  beckons  us, 
To  destinies  of  more  rewarded  toil. 
In  the  hushed  chamber,  sitting  by  the  dead, 
It  grates  on  us  to  hear  the  flood  of  life 
Whirl  rustling  onward,  senseless  of  our  loss. 
The  bee  hums  on  ;  around  the  blossomed  vine 
W  hirs  the  light  humming-bird  ;  the  cricket  chirps ; 
The  locust's  shrill  alarum  stings  the  ear ; 
Hard  by,  the  cock  shouts  lustily ;  from  farm  to 
farm, 

His  cheery  brothers,  telling  of  the  sun, 

Answer,  till  far  away  the  joyance  dies : 

We  never  knew  before  how  God  had  filled 

The  summer  air  with  happy  living  sounds ; 

All  round  us  seems  an  overplus  of  life, 

And  yet  the  one  dear  heart  lies  cold  and  still. 

It  is  most  strange,  when  the  great  miracle 

Hath  for  our  sakes  been  done,  when  we  have  had 

Our  inwardest  experience  of  God, 

When  with  his  presence  still  the  room  expands, 

And  is  awed  after  him,  that  naught  is  changed, 

That  Nature's  face  looks  unacknowledging, 

And  the  mad  world  still  dances  heedless  on 

After  its  butterflies,  and  gives  no  sign. 

'T  is  hard  at  first  to  see  it  all  aright : 

In  vain  Faith  blows  her  trump  to  summon  back 

Her  scattered  troop  :  yet,  through  the  clouded  glass 


DEATH  OF  A  FRIEND'S  CHILD  241 

Of  our  own  bitter  tears,  we  learn  to  look 

Undazzled  on  the  kindness  of  God's  face ; 

Earth  is  too  dark,  and  Heaven  alone  shines  through. 

It  is  no  little  thing,  when  a  fresh  soul 

And  a  fresh  heart,  with  their  unmeasured  scope 

For  good,  not  gravitating  earthward  yet, 

But  circling  in  diviner  periods, 

Are  sent  into  the  world,  —  no  little  thing, 

When  this  unbounded  possibility 

Into  the  outer  silence  is  withdrawn. 

Ah,  in  this  world,  where  every  guiding  thread 

Ends  suddenly  in  the  one  sure  centre,  death, 

The  visionary  hand  of  Might-have-been 

Alone  can  fill  Desire's  cup  to  the  brim  ! 

How  changed,  dear  friend,  are  thy  part  and  thy 
child's ! 

He  bends  above  thy  cradle  now,  or  holds 

His  warning  finger  out  to  be  thy  guide  ; 

Thou  art  the  nursling  now ;  he  watches  thee 

Slow  learning,  one  by  one,  the  secret  things 

Which  are  to  him  used  sights  of  every  day ; 

He  smiles  to  see  thy  wondering  glances  con 

The  grass  and  pebbles  of  the  spirit- world, 

To  thee  miraculous  ;  and  he  will  teach 

Thy  knees  their  due  observances  of  prayer. 

Children  are  God's  apostles,  day  by  day 

Sent  forth  to  preach  of  love,  and  hope,  and  peace ; 

Nor  hath  thy  babe  his  mission  left  undone. 

To  me,  at  least,  his  going  hence  hath  given 

Serener  thoughts  and  nearer  to  the  skies. 


242 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


And  opened  a  new  fountain  in  my  heart 
For  thee,  my  friend,  and  all :  and  oh,  if  Death 
More  near  approaches  meditates,  and  clasps 
Even  now  some  dearer,  more  reluctant  hand, 
God,  strengthen  thou  my  faith,  that  I  may  see 
That 't  is  thine  angel,  who,  with  loving  haste, 
Unto  the  service  of  the  inner  shrine, 
Doth  waken  thy  beloved  with  a  kiss. 


EURYDICE 

Heaven's  cup  held  down  to  me  I  drain, 
The  sunshine  mounts  and  spurs  my  brain ; 
Bathing  in  grass,  with  thirsty  eye 
I  suck  the  last  drop  of  the  sky  ; 
With  each  hot  sense  I  draw  to  the  lees 
The  quickening  out-door  influences, 
And  empty  to  each  radiant  comer 
A  supernaculum  of  summer: 
Not,  Bacchus,  all  thy  grosser  juice 
Could  bring  enchantment  so  profuse, 
Though  for  its  press  each  grape-bunch  had 
The  white  feet  of  an  Oread. 

Through  our  coarse  art  gleam,  now  and  then, 
The  features  of  angelic  men  : 
'Neath  the  lewd  Satyr's  veiling  paint 
Glows  forth  the  Sibyl,  Muse,  or  Saint ; 
The  dauber's  botch  no  more  obscures 
The  mighty  master's  portraitures. 
And  who  can  say  what  luckier  beam 


EURYD1CE 

The  hidden  glory  shall  redeem, 
For  what  chance  clod  the  soul  may  wait 
To  stumble  on  its  nobler  fate, 
Or  why,  to  his  unwarned  abode, 
Still  by  surprises  comes  the  God? 
Some  moment,  nailed  on  sorrow's  cross, 
May  mediate  a  whole  youth's  loss, 
Some  windfall  joy,  we  know  not  whence, 
Redeem  a  lifetime's  rash  expense, 
And,  suddenly  wise,  the  soul  may  mark, 
Stripped  of  their  simulated  dark, 
Mountains  of  gold  that  pierce  the  sky, 
Girdling  its  valleyed  poverty. 

I  feel  ye,  childhood's  hopes,  return, 
With  olden  heats  my  pulses  burn,  — 
Mine  be  the  self-forgetting  sweep, 
The  torrent  impulse  swift  and  wild, 
Wherewith  Taghkanic's  rockborn  child 
Dares  gloriously  the  dangerous  leap, 
And,  in  his  sky-descended  mood, 
Transmutes  each  drop  of  sluggish  blood, 
By  touch  of  bravery's  simple  wand, 
To  amethyst  and  diamond, 
Proving  himself  no  bastard  slip, 
But  the  true  granite-cradled  one, 
Nursed  with  the  rock's  primeval  drip, 
The  cloud-embracing  mountain's  son  ! 

Prayer  breathed  in  vain !  no  wish's  sway 
Rebuilds  the  vanished  yesterday  ; 
For  plated  wares  of  Sheffield  stamp 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


We  gave  the  old  Aladdin's  lamp ; 

?T  is  we  are  changed  ;  ah,  whither  went 

That  undesigned  abandonment, 

That  wise,  unquestioning  content, 

Which  could  erect  its  microcosm 

Out  of  a  weed's  neglected  blossom, 

Could  call  up  Arthur  and  his  peers 

By  a  low  moss's  clump  of  spears, 

Or,  in  its  shingle  trireme  launched, 

Where  Charles  in  some  green  inlet  branched. 

Could  venture  for  the  golden  fleece 

And  dragon-watched  Hesperides, 

Or,  from  its  ripple-shattered  fate, 

Ulysses'  chances  re-create  ? 

When,  heralding  life's  every  phase, 

There  glowed  a  goddess-veiling  haze„ 

A  plenteous,  forewarning  grace, 

Like  that  more  tender  dawn  that  flies 

Before  the  full  moon's  ample  rise  ? 

Methinks  thy  parting  glory  shines 

Through  yonder  grove  of  singing  pines  ; 

At  that  elm-vista's  end  I  trace 

Dimly  thy  sad  leave-taking  face, 

Eurydice  !  Eurydice  ! 

The  tremulous  leaves  repeat  to  me 

Eurydice !  Eurydice ! 

No  gloomier  Orcus  swallows  thee 

Than  the  unclouded  sunset's  glow ; 

Thine  is  at  least  Elysian  woe  ; 

Thou  hast  Good's  natural  decay, 

And  fadest  like  a  star  away 

Into  an  atmosphere  whose  shine 


SHE  CAME  AND  WENT 


With  fuller  day  o'ermasters  thine, 
Entering  defeat  as 't  were  a  shrine ; 
For  us,  —  we  turn  life's  diary  o'er 
To  find  but  one  word,  —  Nevermore. 


SHE  CAME  AND  WENT 

As  a  twig  trembles,  which  a  bird 

Lights  on  to  sing,  then  leaves  unbent, 

So  is  my  memory  thrilled  and  stirred  ;  — 
I  only  know  she  came  and  went. 

As  clasps  some  lake,  by  gusts  unriven, 
The  blue  dome's  measureless  content, 

So  my  soul  held  that  moment's  heaven ;  — 
I  only  know  she  came  and  went. 

As,  at  one  bound,  our  swift  spring  heaps 
The  orchards  full  of  bloom  and  scent, 

So  clove  her  May  my  wintry  sleeps ;  — 
I  only  know  she  came  and  went. 

An  angel  stood  and  met  my  gaze, 

Through  the  low  doorway  of  my  tent ; 

The  tent  is  struck,  the  vision  stays ;  — 
I  only  know  she  came  and  went. 

Oh,  when  the  room  grows  slowly  dim, 
And  life's  last  oil  is  nearly  spent, 

One  gush  of  light  these  eyes  will  brim, 
Only  to  think  she  came  and  went. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


THE  CHANGELING 

I  had  a  little  daughter, 

And  she  was  given  to  me 
To  lead  me  gently  backward 

To  the  Heavenly  Father's  knee, 
That  I,  by  the  force  of  nature, 

Might  in  some  dim  wise  divine 
The  depth  of  his  infinite  patience 

To  this  wayward  soul  of  mine. 

I  know  not  how  others  saw  her, 

But  to  me  she  was  wholly  fair, 
And  the  light  of  the  heaven  she  came  from 

Still  lingered  and  gleamed  in  her  hair ; 
For  it  was  as  wavy  and  golden, 

And  as  many  changes  took, 
As  the  shadows  of  sun-gilt  ripples 

On  the  yellow  bed  of  a  brook. 

To  what  can  I  liken  her  smiling 

Upon  me,  her  kneeling  lover, 
How  it  leaped  from  her  lips  to  her  eyelids, 

And  dimpled  her  wholly  over, 
Till  her  outstretched  hands  smiled  also, 

And  I  almost  seemed  to  see 
The  very  heart  of  her  mother 

Sending  sun  through  her  veins  to  me  ! 

She  had  been  with  us  scarce  a  twelvemonth, 
And  it  hardly  seemed  a  day, 


THE  CHANGELING 


When  a  troop  of  wandering  angels 
Stole  my  little  daughter  away  ; 

Or  perhaps  those  heavenly  Zingari 
But  loosed  the  hampering  strings, 

And  when  they  had  opened  her  cage-door, 
My  little  bird  used  her  wings. 

But  they  left  in  her  stead  a  changeling, 

A  little  angel  child, 
That  seems  like  her  bud  in  full  blossom, 

And  smiles  as  she  never  smiled  : 
When  I  wake  in  the  morning,  I  see  it 

Where  she  always  used  to  lie, 
And  I  feel  as  weak  as  a  violet 

Alone  'neath  the  awful  sky. 

As  weak,  yet  as  trustful  also ; 

For  the  whole  year  long  I  see 
All  the  wonders  of  faithful  Nature 

Still  worked  for  the  love  of  me ; 
Winds  wander,  and  dews  drip  earthward, 

Rain  falls,  suns  rise  and  set, 
Earth  whirls,  and  all  but  to  prosper 

A  poor  little  violet. 

This  child  is  not  mine  as  the  first  was, 

I  cannot  sing  it  to  rest, 
I  cannot  lift  it  up  fatherly 

And  bliss  it  upon  my  breast ; 
Yet  it  lies  in  my  little  one's  cradle 

And  sits  in  my  little  one's  chair, 


248 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


And  the  light  of  the  heaven  she 's  gone  to 
Transfigures  its  golden  hair. 

THE  PIONEER 

What  man  would  live  coffined  with  brick  and 
stone, 

Imprisoned  from  the  healing  touch  of  air, 
And  cramped  with  selfish  landmarks  every- 
where, 

When  all  before  him  stretches,  furrowless  and 
lone, 

The  unmapped  prairie  none  can  fence  or  own  ? 

What  man  would  read  and  read  the  selfsame 

faces, 

And,  like  the  marbles  which  the  windmill 
grinds, 

Rub  smooth  forever  with  the  same  smooth 
minds, 

This  year  retracing  last  year's,  every  year's,  dull 

traces, 

When  there  are  woods  and  un-penf olded  spaces  ? 

What  man  o'er  one  old  thought  would  pore  and 
pore, 

Shut  like  a  book  between  its  covers  thin 
For  every  fool  to  leave  his  dog's-ears  in, 
When  solitude  is  his,  and  God  forevermore, 
Just  for  the  opening  of  a  paltry  door  ? 


THE  PIONEER 


249 


What  man  would  watch  life's  oozy  element 
Creep  Lethe  ward  forever,  when  he  might 
Down  some  great  river  drift  beyond  men's 
sight, 

To  where  the  undethroned  forest's  royal  tent 
Broods  with  its  hush  o'er  half  a  continent  ? 

What  man  with  men  would  push  and  altercate, 
Piecing  out  crooked  means  to  crooked  ends, 
When  he  can  have  the  skies  and  woods  for 
friends, 

Snatch  back  the  rudder  of  his  undismantled  fate, 
And  in  himself  be  ruler,  church,  and  state  ? 

Cast  leaves  and  feathers  rot  in  last  year's  nest,  - 
The  winged  brood,  flown  thence,  new  dwell- 
ings plan  ; 
The  serf  of  his  own  Past  is  not  a  man  ; 
To  change  and  change  is  life,  to  move  and  never 
rest ; — 

Not  what  we  are,  but  what  we  hope,  is  best. 

The  wild,  free  woods  make  no  man  halt  or  blind ; 
Cities  rob  men  of  eyes  and  hands  and  feet, 
Patching  one  whole  of  many  incomplete ; 
The  general  preys  upon  the  individual  mind, 

And  each  alone  is  helpless  as  the  wind. 

Each  man  is  some  man's  servant ;  every  soul 
Is  by  some  other's  presence  quite  discrowned  ; 
Each  owes  the  next  through  all  the  imperfect 
round, 


250  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

Yet  not  with  mutual  help;  each  man  is  his  own 

goal, 

And  the  whole  earth  must  stop  to  pay  him  toll. 

Here,  life  the  undiminished  man  demands ; 
New  faculties  stretch  out  to  meet  new  wants  ; 
What  Nature  asks,  that  Nature  also  grants ; 
Here  man  is  lord,  not  drudge,  of  eyes  and  feet  and 
hands, 

And  to  his  life  is  knit  with  hourly  bands. 

Come  out,  then,  from  the  old  thoughts  and  old 
ways, 

Before  you  harden  to  a  crystal  cold 
Which  the  new  life   can  shatter,  but  not 
mould  ; 

Freedom  for  you  still  waits,  still,  looking  back- 
ward, stays, 
But  widens  still  the  irretrievable  space. 


LONGING 

Of  all  the  myriad  moods  of  mind 

That  through  the  soul  come  thronging, 
Which  one  was  e'er  so  dear,  so  kind, 

So  beautiful  as  Longing  ? 
The  thing  we  long  for,  that  we  are 

For  one  transcendent  moment, 
Before  the  Present  poor  and  bare 

Can  make  its  sneering  comment. 


LONGING 


251 


Still,  through  our  paltry  stir  and  strife, 

Glows  down  the  wished  Ideal, 
And  Longing  moulds  in  clay  what  Life 

Carves  in  the  marble  Real ; 
To  let  the  new  life  in,  we  know, 

Desire  must  ope  the  portal ; 
Perhaps  the  longing  to  be  so 

Helps  make  the  soul  immortal. 

Longing  is  God's  fresh  heavenward  will 

With  our  poor  earthward  striving  ; 
We  quench  it  that  we  may  be  still 

Content  with  merely  living  ; 
But,  would  we  learn  that  heart's  full  scope 

Which  we  are  hourly  wronging, 
Our  lives  must  climb  from  hope  to  hope 

And  realize  our  longing. 

Ah !  let  us  hope  that  to  our  praise 

Good  God  not  only  reckons 
The  moments  when  we  tread  His  ways, 

But  when  the  spirit  beckons,  — 
That  some  slight  good  is  also  wrought 

Beyond  self-satisfaction, 
When  we  are  simply  good  in  thought, 

Howe'er  we  fail  in  action. 


252  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


ODE  TO  FRANCE 

FEBRUARY,  1848 
I. 

As,  flake  by  flake,  the  beetling  avalanches 

Build  up   their  imminent   crags   of  noiseless 
snow, 

Till  some  chance  thrill  the  loosened  ruin  launches 
In  unwarned  havoc  on  the  roofs  below, 

So  grew  and  gathered  through  the  silent  years 
The  madness  of  a  People,  wrong  by  wrong. 

There  seemed  no  strength  in  the  dumb  toiler's 
tears, 

No  strength  in  suffering;   but  the  Past  was 
strong : 

The  brute  despair  of  trampled  centuries 

Leaped  up  with  one  hoarse  yell  and  snapped  its 
bands, 

Groped  for  its  right  with  horny,  callous  hands, 
And  stared  around  for  God  with  bloodshot  eyes. 

What  wonder  if  those  palms  were  all  too  hard 
For  nice  distinctions,  —  if  that  maenad  throng  — 

They  whose  thick  atmosphere  no  bard 
Had  shivered  with  the  lightning  of  his  song, 
Brutes  with  the  memories  and  desires  of  men, 
Whose  chronicles  were  writ  with  iron  pen, 

In  the  crooked  shoulder  and  the  forehead  low, 
Set  wrong  to  balance  wrong, 
And  physicked  woe  with  woe  ? 


ODE  TO  FRANCE 


253 


They  did  as  they  were  taught ;  not  theirs  the  blame, 

If  men  who  scattered  firebrands  reaped  the  flame : 
They  trampled  Peace  beneath  their  savage  feet, 

And  by  her  golden  tresses  drew 
Mercy  along  the  pavement  of  the  street. 

O  Freedom  !  Freedom  !  is  thy  morning-dew 
So  gory  red  ?    Alas,  thy  light  had  ne'er 
Shone  in  upon  the  chaos  of  their  lair  ! 

They  reared  to  thee  such  symbol  as  they  knew, 
And  worshipped  it  with  flame  and  blood, 
A  Vengeance,  axe  in  hand,  that  stood 

Holding  a  tyrant's  head  up  by  the  clotted  hair. 

in. 

What  wrongs  the  Oppressor  suffered,  these  we 
know  ; 

These  have  found  piteous  voice  in  song  and 
prose  ; 

But  for  the  Oppressed,  their  darkness  and  their 
woe, 

Their   grinding  centuries,  —  what   Muse  had 
those  ? 

Though  hall  and  palace  had  nor  eyes  nor  ears, 

Hardening  a  people's  heart  to  senseless  stone, 
Thou  knewest  them,  O  Earth,  that  drank  their 
tears, 

O  Heaven,  that  heard  their  inarticulate  moan  ! 
They  noted  down  their  fetters,  link  by  link ; 
Coarse  was  the  hand  that  scrawled,  and  red  the 
ink  ; 

Rude  was  their  score,  as  suits  unlettered  men, 


254 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


Notched  with  a  headsman's  axe  upon  a  block  : 
What  marvel  if,  when  came  the  avenging  shock, 
'T  was  Ate,  not  Urania,  held  the  pen  ? 

IV. 

With  eye  averted,  and  an  anguished  frown, 

Loathingly  glides  the  Muse  through  scenes  of 
strife, 

Where,  like  the  heart  of  Vengeance  up  and  down, 

Throbs  in  its  framework  the  blood-muffled  knife  ; 
Slow  are  the  steps  of  Freedom,  but  her  feet 

Turn  never  backward  :  hers  no  bloody  glare  ; 
Her  light  is  calm,  and  innocent,  and  sweet, 

And  where  it  enters  there  is  no  despair : 
Not  first  on  palace  and  cathedral  spire 
Quivers  and  gleams  that  unconsuming  fire  ; 

While  these  stand  black  against  her  morning 
skies, 

The  peasant  sees  it  leap  from  peak  to  peak 

Along  his  hills  ;  the  craftsman's  burning  eyes 
Own  with  cool  tears  its  influence  mother-meek ; 

It  lights  the  poet's  heart  up  like  a  star ; 

Ah !  while  the  tyrant  deemed  it  still  afar, 
And  twined  with  golden  threads  his  futile  snare, 

That  swift,  convicting  glow  all  round  him  ran ; 
'T  was  close  beside  him  there, 
Sunrise  whose  Memnon  is  the  soul  of  man. 

v. 

O  Broker-King,  is  this. thy  wisdom's  fruit  ? 
A  dynasty  plucked  out  as 't  were  a  weed 
Grown  rankly  in  a  night,  that  leaves  no  seed  ! 


ODE  TO  FRANCE 


255 


Could  eighteen  years  strike  down  no  deeper  root  ? 

But  now  thy  vulture  eye  was  turned  on  Spain ; 
A  shout  from  Paris,  and  thy  crown  falls  off, 

Thy  race  has  ceased  to  reign, 
And  thou  become  a  fugitive  and  scoff  : 

Slippery  the  feet  that  mount  by  stairs  of  gold, 
And  weakest  of  all  fences  one  of  steel ; 

Go  and  keep  school  again  like  him  of  old, 
The  Syracusan  tyrant ;  —  thou  mayst  feel 
Royal  amid  a  birch-swayed  commonweal ! 

VI. 

Not  long  can  he  be  ruler  who  allows 

His  time  to  run  before  him  ;  thou  wast  naught 
Soon  as  the  strip  of  gold  about  thy  brows 

Was  no  more  emblem  of  the  People's  thought : 
Vain  were  thy  bayonets  against  the  foe 

Thou  hadst  to  cope  with ;  thou  didst  wage 
War  not  with  Frenchmen  merely  ,  —  no, 

Thy  strife  was  with  the  Spirit  of  the  Age, 
The  invisible  Spirit  whose  first  breath  divine 

Scattered  thy  frail  endeavor, 
And,  like  poor  last  year's  leaves,  whirled  thee  and 
thine 

Into  the  Dark  forever  ! 

VII. 

Is  here  no  triumph  ?    Nay,  what  though 
The  yellow  blood  of  Trade  meanwhile  should  pour 

Along  its  arteries  a  shrunken  flow, 
And  the  idle  canvas  droop  around  the  shore  ? 
These  do  not  make  a  state, 


256  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


Nor  keep  it  great ; 
I  think  God  made 
The  earth  for  man,  not  trade ; 
And  where  each  humblest  human  creature 
Can  stand,  no  more  suspicious  or  afraid, 
Erect  and  kingly  in  his  right  of  nature, 
To  heaven  and  earth  knit  with  harmonious  ties,  — 
Where  I  behold  the  exultation 
Of  manhood  glowing  in  those  eyes 
That  had  been  dark  for  ages, 
Or  only  lit  with  bestial  loves  and  rages, 
There  I  behold  a  Nation : 

The  France  which  lies 
Between  the  Pyrenees  and  Rhine 
Is  the  least  part  of  France ; 
I  see  her  rather  in  the  soul  whose  shine 
Burns  through  the  craftsman's  grimy  countenance, 
In  the  new  energy  divine 

Of  Toil's  enfranchised  glance. 

VIII. 

And  if  it  be  a  dream, 
If  the  great  Future  be  the  little  Past 
'Neath  a  new  mask,  which  drops  and  shows  at 
last 

The  same  weird,  mocking  face  to  balk  and  blast, 
Yet,  Muse,  a  gladder  measure  suits  the  theme, 

And  the  Tyrtsean  harp 

Loves  notes  more  resolute  and  sharp, 
Throbbing,  as  throbs  the  bosom,  hot  and  fast : 

Such  visions  are  of  morning, 

Theirs  is  no  vague  forewarning, 


ODE  TO  FRANCE 

The  dreams  which  nations  dream  come  true, 
And  shape  the  world  anew ; 
If  this  be  a  sleep, 
Make  it  long,  make  it  deep, 
O  Father,  who  sendest  the  harvests  men  reap 
While  Labor  so  sleepeth, 
His  sorrow  is  gone, 
No  longer  he  weepeth, 
But  smileth  and  steepeth 

His  thoughts  in  the  dawn ; 
He  heareth  Hope  yonder 

Rain,  lark-like,  her  fancies, 
His  dreaming  hands  wander 
Mid  heart's-ease  and  pansies  ; 
"  'T  is  a  dream !    'T  is  a  vision !  " 

Shrieks  Mammon  aghast ; 
"  The  day's  broad  derision 
Will  chase  it  at  last ; 
Ye  are  mad,  ye  have  taken 
A  slumbering  kraken 

For  firm  land  of  the  Past !  n 
Ah  !  if  he  awaken, 

God  shield  us  all  then, 
If  this  dream  rudely  shaken 
Shall  cheat  him  again  ! 

IX, 

Since  first  I  heard  our  North-wind  blow, 
Since  first  I  saw  Atlantic  throw 
On  our  grim  rocks  his  thunderous  snow, 
I  loved  thee,  Freedom ;  as  a  boy 
The  rattle  of  thy  shield  at  Marathon 


258  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


Did  with  a  Grecian  joy- 
Through  all  my  pulses  run ; 
But  I  have  learned  to  love  thee  now 
Without  the  helm  upon  thy  gleaming  brow, 

A  maiden  mild  and  undefiled 
Like  her  who  bore  the  world's  redeeming  child  ; 
And  surely  never  did  thine  altars  glance 
With  purer  fires  than  nowT  in  France ; 
While,  in  their  clear  white  flashes, 
Wrong's  shadow,  backward  cast, 
Waves  cowering  o'er  the  ashes 

Of  the  dead,  blaspheming  Past, 
O'er  the  shapes  of  fallen  giants, 
His  own  unburied  brood, 
Whose  dead  hands  clench  defiance 

At  the  overpowering  Good  : 
And  down  the  happy  future  runs  a  flood 

Of  prophesying  light ; 
It  shows  an  Earth  no  longer  stained  with  blood, 
Blossom  and  fruit  where  now  we  see  the  bud 
Of  Brotherhood  and  Eight. 


ANTI-APIS 

Praisest  Law,  friend  ?    We,  too,  love  it  much  as 

they  that  love  it  best ; 
;T  is  the  deep,  august  foundation,  whereon  Peace 

and  Justice  rest ; 
On  the  rock  primeval,  hidden  in  the  Past  its  bases  be, 
Block  by  block  the  endeavoring  Ages  built  it  up  to 

what  we  see. 


ANTI-APIS 


259 


But  dig  down :  the  Old  unbury ;  thou  shalt  find. 

on  every  stone 
That  each  Age  hath  carved  the  symbol  of  what  god 

to  them  was  known, 
Ugly  shapes  and  brutish  sometimes,  but  the  fairest 

that  they  knew ; 
If  their  sight  were  dim  and  earthward,  yet  their 

hope  and  aim  were  true. 

Surely  as  the  unconscious  needle  feels  the  far-off 

loadstar  draw, 
So  strives  every  gracious  nature  to  at-one  itself  with 

law; 

And  the  elder  Saints  and  Sages  laid  their  pious 

framework  right 
By  a  theocratic  instinct  covered  from  the  people's 

sight. 

As  their  gods  were,  so  their  laws  were ;  Thor  the 
strong  could  reave  and  steal, 

So  through  many  a  peaceful  inlet  tore  the  Norse- 
man's eager  keel ; 

But  a  new  law  came  when  Christ  came,  and  not 
blameless,  as  before, 

Can  we,  paying  him  our  lip-tithes,  give  our  lives 
and  faiths  to  Thor. 

Law  is  holy :  ay,  but  what  law  ?  Is  there  nothing 
more  divine 

Than  the  patched-up  broils  of  Congress,  venal,  full 
of  meat  and  wine  ? 


260  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


Is  there,  say  you,  nothing  higher  ?    Naught,  God 

save  us  !  that  transcends 
Laws  of  cotton  texture,  wove  by  vulgar  men  for 

vulgar  ends  ? 

Did  Jehovah  ask  their  counsel,  or  submit  to  them 
a  plan, 

Ere  he  filled  with  loves,  hopes,  longings,  this  aspir- 
ing heart  of  man  ? 

For  their  edict  does  the  soul  wait,  ere  it  swing 
round  to  the  pole 

Of  the  true,  the  free,  the  God-willed,  all  that  makes 
it  be  a  soul  ? 

Law  is  holy ;  but  not  your  law,  ye  who  keep  the 

tablets  whole 
While  ye  dash  the  Law  to  pieces,  shatter  it  in  life 

and  soul ; 

Bearing  up  the  Ark  is  lightsome,  golden  Apis  hid 
within, 

While  we  Levites  share  the  offerings,  richer  by  the 
people's  sin. 

Give  to  Caesar  what  is  Caesar's  ?  yes,  but  tell  me, 
if  you  can, 

Is  this  superscription  Caesar's  here  upon  our  bro- 
ther man? 

Is  not  here  some  other's  image,  dark  and  sullied 
though  it  be, 

In  this  fellow-soul  that  worships,  struggles  God- 
ward  even  as  we  ? 


ANTI-APIS 


261 


It  was  not  to  such  a  future  that  the  Mayflower's 

prow  was  turned ; 
Not  to  such  a  faith  the  martyrs  clung,  exulting  as 

they  burned; 

Not  by  such  laws  are  men  fashioned,  earnest,  sim- 
ple, valiant,  great 

In  the  household  virtues  whereon  rests  the  uncon- 
querable state. 

Ah !  there  is  a  higher  gospel,  overhead  the  God- 
roof  springs, 

And  each  glad,  obedient  planet  like  a  golden  shut- 
tle sings 

Through  the  web  which  Time  is  weaving  in  his 

never-resting  loom, 
Weaving  seasons  many-colored,  bringing  prophecy 

to  doom. 

Think  you  Truth  a  farthing  rushlight,  to  be  pinched 

ont  when  you  will 
With  your  deft  official  fingers,  and  your  politicians' 

skill? 

Is  your  God  a  wooden  fetish,  to  be  hidden  out  of 
sight 

That  his  block  eyes  may  not  see  you  do  the  thing 
that  is  not  right  ? 

But  the  Destinies  think  not  so  ;  to  their  judgment- 
chamber  lone 

Comes  no  noise  of  popular  clamor,  there  Fame's 
trumpet  is  not  blown  ; 


262  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


Your  majorities  they  reck  not ;  that  you  grant,  but 
then  you  say 

That  you  differ  with  them  somewhat,  —  which  is 
stronger,  you  or  they  ? 

Patient  are  they  as  the  insects  that  build  islands 
in  the  deep ; 

They  hurl  not  the  bolted  thunder,  but  their  silent 
way  they  keep ; 

Where  they  have  been  that  we  know ;  where  em- 
pires towered  that  were  not  just; 

Lo !  the  skulking  wild  fox  scratches  in  a  little  heap 
of  dust 


A  PARABLE 

Said  Christ  our  Lord,  "  I  will  go  and  see 
How  the  men,  my  brethren,  believe  in  me." 
He  passed  not  again  through  the  gate  of  birth, 
But  made  himself  known  to  the  children  of  earth. 

Then  said  the  chief  priests,  and  rulers,  and  kings, 
"  Behold,  now,  the  Giver  of  all  good  things ; 
Go  to,  let  us  welcome  with  pomp  and  state 
Him  who  alone  is  mighty  and  great." 

With  carpets  of  gold  the  ground  they  spread 

Wherever  the  Son  of  Man  should  tread, 

And  in  palace-chambers  lofty  and  rare 

They  lodged  him,  and  served  him  with  kingly  fare. 


A  PARABLE 


263 


Great  organs  surged  through  arches  dim 
Their  jubilant  floods  in  praise  of  him ; 
And  in  church,  and  palace,  and  judgment-hall, 
He  saw  his  own  image  high  over  alL 

But  still,  wherever  his  steps  they  led, 
The  Lord  in  sorrow  bent  down  his  head, 
And  from  under  the  heavy  foundation-stones, 
The  son  of  Mary  heard  bitter  groans. 

And  in  church,  and  palace,  and  judgment-hall, 
He  marked  great  fissures  that  rent  the  wall, 
And  opened  wider  and  yet  more  wide 
As  the  living  foundation  heaved  and  sighed. 

"  Have  ye  founded  your  thrones  and  altars,  then, 
On  the  bodies  and  souls  of  living  men  ? 
And  think  ye  that  building  shall  endure, 
Which  shelters  the  noble  and  crushes  the  poor  ? 

"  With  gates  of  silver  and  bars  of  gold 

Ye  have  fenced  my  sheep  from  their  Father's  fold  ; 

I  have  heard  the  dropping  of  their  tears 

In  heaven  these  eighteen  hundred  years.' ' 

"  O  Lord  and  Master,  not  ours  the  guilt, 
We  build  but  as  our  fathers  built ; 
Behold  thine  images,  how  they  stand, 
Sovereign  and  sole,  through  all  our  land. 

"  Our  task  is  hard,  —  with  swrord  and  flame 
To  hold  thine  earth  forever  the  same, 


264 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


And  with  sharp  crooks  of  steel  to  keep 
Still,  as  thou  leftest  them,  thy  sheep." 

Then  Christ  sought  out  an  artisan, 
A  low-browed,  stunted,  haggard  man, 
And  a  motherless  girl,  whose  fingers  thin 
Pushed  from  her  faintly  want  and  sin. 

These  set  he  in  the  midst  of  them, 
And  as  they  drew  back  their  garment-hem, 
For  fear  of  defilement,  "  Lo,  here,"  said  he, 
"  The  images  ye  have  made  of  me !  " 


ODE 

WRITTEN  FOR  THE  CELEBRATION"  OF  THE  INTRODUC- 
TION OF  THE  COCHITUATE  WATER  INTO  THE  CITY  OF 
BOSTON. 

My  name  is  Water :  I  have  sped 

Through  strange,  dark  ways,  untried  before, 
By  pure  desire  of  friendship  led, 

Cochituate's  ambassador ; 
He  sends  four  royal  gifts  by  me  : 
Long  life,  health,  peace,  and  purity. 

I 'm  Ceres'  cup-bearer  ;  I  pour, 

For  flowers  and  fruits  and  all  their  kin, 

Her  crystal  vintage,  from  of  yore 
Stored  in  old  Earth's  selectest  bin, 

Flora's  Falernian  ripe,  since  God 

The  wine-press  of  the  deluge  trod. 


ODE 


265 


In  that  far  isle  whence,  iron-willed, 

The  New  World's  sires  their  bark  unmoored, 

The  fairies'  acorn-cups  I  filled 
Upon  the  toadstool's  silver  board, 

And,  'neath  Heme's  oak,  for  Shakespeare's  sight. 

Strewed  moss  and  grass  with  diamonds  bright. 

No  fairies  in  the  Mayflower  came, 

And,  lightsome  as  I  sparkle  here, 
For  Mother  Bay  State,  busy  dame, 

I  've  toiled  and  drudged  this  many  a  year, 
Throbbed  in  her  engines'  iron  veins, 
Twirled  myriad  spindles  for  her  gains, 

I,  too,  can  weave  :  the  warp  I  set 

Through  which  the  sun  his  shuttle  throws, 

And,  bright  as  Noah  saw  it,  yet 

For  you  the  arching  rainbow  glows, 

A  sight  in  Paradise  denied 

To  unfallen  Adam  and  his  bride. 

When  Winter  held  me  in  his  grip, 
You  seized  and  sent  me  o'er  the  wave, 

Ungrateful !  in  a  prison-ship  ; 
But  I  forgive,  not  long  a  slave, 

For,  soon  as  summer  south-winds  blew, 

Homeward  I  fled,  disguised  as  dew. 

For  countless  services  I 'm  fit, 

Of  use,  of  pleasure,  and  of  gain, 
But  lightly  from  all  bonds  I  flit, 

Nor  lose  my  mirth,  nor  feel  a  stain  | 


266  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

From  mill  and  wash-tub  I  escape, 
And  take  in  heaven  my  proper  shape. 

So,  free  myself,  to-day,  elate 

I  come  from  far  o'er  hill  and  mead, 

And  here,  Cochituate's  envoy,  wait 
To  be  your  blithesome  Ganymede, 

And  brim  your  cups  with  nectar  true 

That  never  will  make  slaves  of  you. 

LINES 

SUGGESTED  BY  THE  GRAVES  OF  TWO  ENGLISH  SOLDIERS 
ON  CONCORD  BATTLE-GROUND. 

The  same  good  blood  that  now  refills 
The  dotard  Orient's  shrunken  veins, 
The  same  whose  vigor  westward  thrills, 
Bursting  Nevada's  silver  chains, 
Poured  here  upon  the  April  grass, 
Freckled  with  red  the  herbage  new ; 
On  reeled  the  battle's  trampling  mass, 
Back  to  the  ash  the  bluebird  flew. 

Poured  here  in  vain  ;  —  that  sturdy  blood 
Was  meant  to  make  the  earth  more  green, 
But  in  a  higher,  gentler  mood 
Than  broke  this  April  noon  serene  ; 
Two  graves  are  here  :  to  mark  the  place, 
At  head  and  foot,  an  unhewn  stone, 
O'er  which  the  herald  lichens  trace 
The  blazon  of  Oblivion. 


LINES 


267 


These  men  were  brave  enough,  and  true 
To  the  hired  soldier's  bull-dog  creed ; 
What  brought  them  here  they  never  knew, 
They  fought  as  suits  the  English  breed  : 
They  came  three  thousand  miles,  and  died, 
To  keep  the  Past  upon  its  throne  ; 
Unheard,  beyond  the  ocean  tide, 
Their  English  mother  made  her  moan. 

The  turf  that  covers  them  no  thrill 
Sends  up  to  fire  the  heart  and  brain ; 
No  stronger  purpose  nerves  the  will, 
No  hope  renews  its  youth  again  : 
From  farm  to  farm  the  Concord  glides, 
And  trails  my  fancy  with  its  flow ; 
O'erhead  the  balanced  hen-hawk  slides, 
Twinned  in  the  river's  heaven  below. 

But  go,  whose  Bay  State  bosom  stirs, 
Proud  of  thy  birth  and  neighbor's  right, 
Where  sleep  the  heroic  villagers 
Borne  red  and  stiff  from  Concord  fight ; 
Thought  Reuben,  snatching  down  his  gun, 
Or  Seth,  as  ebbed  the  life  away, 
What  earthquake  rifts  would  shoot  and  run 
World-wide  from  that  short  April  fray  ? 

What  then  ?  With  heart  and  hand  they  wrought, 

According  to  their  village  light ; 

'T  was  for  the  Future  that  they  fought, 

Their  rustic  faith  in  what  was  right. 

Upon  earth's  tragic  stage  they  burst 


268  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


Unsummoned,  in  the  humble  sock ; 
Theirs  the  fifth  act ;  the  curtain  first 
Rose  long  ago  on  Charles's  block. 

Their  graves  have  voices  ;  if  they  threw 

Dice  charged  with  fates  beyond  their  ken, 

Yet  to  their  instincts  they  were  true, 

And  had  the  genius  to  be  men. 

Fine  privilege  of  Freedom's  host, 

Of  humblest  soldiers  for  the  Right !  — 

Age  after  age  ye  hold  your  post, 

Your  graves  send  courage  forth,  and  might. 


TO  — 

We,  too,  have  autumns,  when  our  leaves 
Drop  loosely  through  the  dampened  air, 

When  all  our  good  seems  bound  in  sheaves, 
And  we  stand  reaped  and  bare. 

Our  seasons  have  no  fixed  returns, 
Without  our  will  they  come  and  go ; 

At  noon  our  sudden  summer  burns, 
Ere  sunset  all  is  snow. 

But  each  day  brings  less  summer  cheer, 
Crimps  more  our  ineffectual  spring, 

And  something  earlier  every  year 
Our  singing  birds  take  wing* 

As  less  the  olden  glow  abides, 

And  less  the  chillier  heart  aspires, 


FREEDOM 


269 


With  drift-wood  beached  in  past  spring-tides 
We  light  our  sullen  fires. 

By  the  pinched  rushlight's  starving  beam 
We  cower  and  strain  our  wasted  sight, 

To  stitch  youth's  shroud  up,  seam  by  seam, 
In  the  long  arctic  night. 

It  was  not  so  —  we  once  were  young  — 

When  Spring,  to  womanly  Summer  turning, 

Her  dew-drops  on  each  grass-blade  strung, 
In  the  red  sunrise  burning. 

We  trusted  then,  aspired,  believed 

That  earth  could  be  remade  to-morrow ; 

Ah,  why  be  ever  undeceived  ? 
Why  give  up  faith  for  sorrow  ? 

O  thou,  whose  days  are  yet  all  spring, 
Faith,  blighted  once,  is  past  retrieving ; 

Experience  is  a  dumb,  dead  thing ; 
The  victory 's  in  believing. 


FREEDOM 

Are  we,  then,  wholly  fallen  ?    Can  it  be 
That  thou,  North  wind,  that  from  thy  mountains 
bringest 

Their  spirit  to  our  plains,  and  thou,  blue  sea, 
Who  on  our  rocks  thy  wreaths  of  freedom  flingest, 
As  on  an  altar,  —  can  it  be  that  ye 


270 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


Have  wasted  inspiration  on  dead  ears, 
Dulled  with  the  too  familiar  clank  of  chains  ? 
The  people's  heart  is  like  a  harp  for  years 
Hung  where  some  petrifying  torrent  rains 
Its  slow-incrusting  spray  :  the  stiffened  chords 
Faint  and  more  faint  make  answer  to  the  tears 
That  drip  upon  them  :  idle  are  all  words  : 
Only  a  golden  plectrum  wakes  the  tone 
Deep  buried  'neath  that  ever-thickening  stone. 

We  are  not  free  :  doth  Freedom,  then,  consist 
In  musing  with  our  faces  toward  the  Past, 
While  petty  cares  and  crawling  interests  twist 
Their  spider-threads  about  us,  which  at  last 
Grow  strong  as  iron  chains,  to  cramp  and  bind 
In  formal  narrowness  heart,  soul,  and  mind  ? 
Freedom  is  recreated  year  by  year, 
In  hearts  wide  open  on  the  God  ward  side, 
In  souls  calm-cadenced  as  the  whirling  sphere, 
In  minds  that  sway  the  future  like  a  tide. 
No  broadest  creeds  can  hold  her,  and  no  codes; 
She  chooses  men  for  her  august  abodes, 
Building  them  fair  and  fronting  to  the  dawn ; 
Yet,  when  we  seek  her,  we  but  find  a  few 
Light  footprints,  leading  morn-ward  through  the 
dew : 

Before  the  day  had  risen,  she  was  gone. 

And  we  must  follow  :  swiftly  runs  she  on, 
And,  if  our  steps  should  slacken  in  despair, 
Half  turns  her  face,  half  smiles  through  golden  hair, 
Forever  yielding,  never  wholly  won  : 


BIBLIOLA  TEES 


That  is  not  love  which  pauses  in  the  race 
Two  close-linked  names  on  fleeting  sand  to  trace 
Freedom  gained  yesterday  is  no  more  ours  ; 
Men  gather  but  dry  seeds  of  last  year's  flowers  ; 
Still  there 's  a  charm  ungranted,  still  a  grace, 
Still  rosy  Hope,  the  free,  the  unattained, 
Makes  us  Possession's  languid  hand  let  fall ; 
'T  is  but  a  fragment  of  ourselves  is  gained, 
The  Future  brings  us  more,  but  never  all. 

And,  as  the  finder  of  some  unknown  realm, 
Mounting  a  summit  whence  he  thinks  to  see 
On  either  side  of  him  the  imprisoning  sea, 
Beholds,  above  the  clouds  that  overwhelm 
The  valley-land,  peak  after  snowy  peak 
Stretch  out  of  sight,  each  like  a  silver  helm 
Beneath  its  plume  of  smoke,  sublime  and  bleak, 
And  what  he  thought  an  island  finds  to  be 
A  continent  to  him  first  oped,  —  so  we 
Can  from  our  height  of  Freedom  look  along 
A  boundless  future,  ours  if  we  be  strong ; 
Or  if  we  shrink,  better  remount  our  ships 
And,  fleeing  God's  express  design,  trace  back 
The  hero-freighted  Mayflower's  prophet-track 
To  Europe  entering  her  blood-red  eclipse. 


BIBLIOLATRES 

Bowing  thyself  in  dust  before  a  Book, 
And  thinking  the  great  God  is  thine  alone, 
O  rash  iconoclast,  thou  wilt  not  brook 


272  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


What  gods  the  heathen  carves  in  wood  and  stone, 
As  if  the  Shepherd  who  from  outer  cold 
Leads  all  his  shivering  lambs  to  one  sure  fold 
Were  careful  for  the  fashion  of  His  crook. 

There  is  no  broken  reed  so  poor  and  base, 
No  rush,  the  bending  tilt  of  swamp-fly  blue, 
But  He  therewith  the  ravening  wolf  can  chase, 
And  guide  His  flock  to  springs  and  pastures  new ; 
Through  ways  unlooked  for,  and  through  many 
lands, 

Far  from  the  rich  folds  built  with  human  hands, 
The  gracious  footprints  of  His  love  I  trace. 

And  what  art  thou,  own  brother  of  the  clod, 
That  from  His  hand  the  crook  would'st  snatch  away 
And  shake  instead  thy  dry  and  sapless  rod, 
To  scare  the  sheep  out  of  the  wholesome  day  ? 
Yea,  what  art  thou,  blind,  unconverted  Jew, 
That  with  thy  idol-volume's  covers  two 
Would'st  make  a  jail  to  coop  the  living  God  ? 

Thou  hear'st  not  well  the  mountain  organ-tones 
By  prophet  ears  from  Hor  and  Sinai  caught, 
Thinking  the  cisterns  of  those  Hebrew  brains 
Drew  dry  the  springs  of  the  All-knower's  thought, 
Nor  shall  thy  lips  be  touched  with  living  fire, 
Who  blow'st  old  altar-coals  with  sole  desire 
To  weld  anew  the  spirit's  broken  chains. 

God  is  not  dumb,  that  He  should  speak  no  more  ; 
If  thou  hast  wanderings  in  the  wilderness 


BEAVER  BROOK 


273 


And  find'st  not  Sinai,  't  is  thy  soul  is  poor ; 
There  towers  the  Mountain  of  the  Voice  no  less, 
Which  whoso  seeks  shall  find,  but  he  who  bends, 
Intent  on  manna  still  and  mortal  ends, 
Sees  it  not,  neither  hears  its  thundered  lore. 

Slowly  the  Bible  of  the  race  is  writ, 
And  not  on  paper  leaves  nor  leaves  of  stone  ; 
Each  age,  each  kindred,  adds  a  verse  to  it, 
Texts  of  despair  or  hope,  of  joy  or  moan. 
While  swings  the  sea,  while  mists  the  mountains 
shroud, 

While  thunder's  surges  burst  on  cliffs  of  cloud, 
Still  at  the  prophets'  feet  the  nations  sit. 

BEAVER  BROOK 

Hushed  with  broad  sunlight  lies  the  hill, 
And,  minuting  the  long  day's  loss, 
The  cedar's  shadow,  slow  and  still, 
Creeps  o'er  its  dial  of  gray  moss. 

Warm  noon  brims  full  the  valley's  cup, 
The  aspen's  leaves  are  scarce  astir ; 
Only  the  little  mill  sends  up 
Its  busy,  never-ceasing  burr. 

Climbing  the  loose-piled  wall  that  hems 
The  road  along  the  mill-pond's  brink, 
From  'neath  the  arching  barberry-stems. 
My  footstep  scares  the  shy  chewink. 


274 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


Beneath  a  bony  buttonwood 
The  mill's  red  door  lets  forth  the  din  ; 
The  whitened  miller,  dust-imbued, 
Flits  past  the  square  of  dark  within. 

No  mountain  torrent's  strength  is  here ; 
Sweet  Beaver,  child  of  forest  still, 
Heaps  its  small  pitcher  to  the  ear, 
And  gently  waits  the  miller's  will. 

Swift  slips  Undine  along  the  race 
Unheard,  and  then,  with  flashing  bound, 
Floods  the  dull  wheel  with  light  and  grace, 
And,  laughing,  hunts  the  loath  drudge  round. 

The  miller  dreams  not  at  what  cost 
The  quivering  millstones  hum  and  whirl, 
Nor  how  for  every  turn  are  tost 
Armfuls  of  diamond  and  of  pearl. 

But  Summer  cleared  my  happier  eyes 
With  drops  of  some  celestial  juice, 
To  see  how  Beauty  underlies, 
Forevermore  each  form  of  use. 

And  more ;  methought  I  saw  that  flood, 
Which  now  so  dull  and  darkling  steals, 
Thick,  here  and  there,  with  human  blood, 
To  turn  the  world's  laborious  wheels. 

No  more  than  doth  the  miller  there, 
Shut  in  our  several  cells,  do  we 


BEAVER  BROOK 


275 


Know  with  what  waste  of  beauty  rare 
Moves  every  day's  machinery. 

Surely  the  wiser  time  shall  come 
When  this  fine  overplus  of  might, 
No  longer  sullen,  slow,  and  dumb, 
Shall  leap  to  music  and  to  light. 

In  that  new  childhood  of  the  Earth 

Life  of  itself  shall  dance  and  play, 

Fresh  blood  in  Time's  shrunk  veins  make  mirth, 

And  labor  meet  delight  half-way. 


MEMORIAL  VERSES 

KOSSUTH 

A  race  of  nobles  may  die  out, 
A  royal  line  may  leave  no  heir ; 
Wise  Nature  sets  no  guards  about 
Her  pewter  plate  and  wooden  ware. 

But  they  fail  not,  the  kinglier  breed, 
Who  starry  diadems  attain  ; 
To  dungeon,  axe,  and  stake  succeed 
Heirs  of  the  old  heroic  strain. 

The  zeal  of  Nature  never  cools, 

Nor  is  she  thwarted  of  her  ends ; 

When  gapped  and  dulled  her  cheaper  tools, 

Then  she  a  saint  and  prophet  spends. 

Land  of  the  Magyars !  though  it  be 
The  tyrant  may  relink  his  chain, 
Already  thine  the  victory, 
As  the  just  Future  measures  gain. 

Thou  hast  succeeded,  thou  hast  won 
The  deathly  travail's  amplest  worth ; 
A  nation's  duty  thou  hast  done, 
Giving  a  hero  to  our  earth. 


TO  LAMART1NE 


277 


And  he,  let  come  what  will  of  woe, 
Hath  saved  the  land  he  strove  to  save ; 
No  Cossack  hordes,  no  traitor's  blow, 
Can  quench  the  voice  shall  haunt  his  grave. 

"  I  Kossuth  am  :  O  Future,  thou 
That  clear'st  the  just  and  blott'st  the  vile, 
O'er  this  small  dust  in  reverence  bow, 
Remembering  what  I  was  erewhile. 

"  I  was  the  chosen  trump  wherethrough 

Our  God  sent  forth  awakening  breath  ; 

Came  chains  ?  Came  death  ?  The  strain  He  blew 

Sounds  on,  outliving  chains  and  death." 

TO  LAMARTINE 

1848 

I  did  not  praise  thee  when  the  crowd, 

'Witched  with  the  moment's  inspiration, 

Vexed  thy  still  ether  with  hosannas  loud, 
And  stamped  their  dusty  adoration  ; 
I  but  looked  upward  with  the  rest, 

And,  when  they  shouted  Greatest,  whispered  Best. 

They  raised  thee  not,  but  rose  to  thee, 

Their  fickle  wreaths  about  thee  flinging ; 

So  on  some  marble  Phoebus  the  swol'n  sea 

Might  leave  his  worthless  seaweed  clinging, 
But  pious  hands,  with  reverent  care, 

Make  the  pure  limbs  once  more  sublimely  bare. 


278 


MEMORIAL  VERSES 


Now  thou  'rt  thy  plain,  grand  self  again, 

Thou  art  secure  from  panegyric, 
Thou  who  gav'st  politics  an  epic  strain, 

And  actedst  Freedom's  noblest  lyric ; 
This  side  the  Blessed  Isles,  no  tree 
Grows  green  enough  to  make  a  wreath  for  thee. 

Nor  can  blame  cling  to  thee  ;  the  snow 

From  swinish  footprints  takes  no  staining, 

But,  leaving  the  gross  soils  of  earth  below, 
Its  spirit  mounts,  the  skies  regaining, 
And  unresentful  falls  again, 

To  beautify  the  world  with  dews  and  rain. 

The  highest  duty  to  mere  man  vouchsafed 
Was  laid  on  thee,  —  out  of  wild  chaos, 

When  the  roused  popular  ocean  foamed  and  chafed, 
And  vulture  War  from  his  Imaus 
Snuffed  blood,  to  summon  homely  Peace, 

And  show  that  only  order  is  release. 

To  carve  thy  fullest  thought,  what  though 
Time  was  not  granted  ?    Aye  in  history, 

Like  that  Dawn's  face  which  baffled  Angelo 
Left  shapeless,  grander  for  its  mystery, 
Thy  great  Design  shall  stand,  and  day 

Flood  its  blind  front  from  Orients  far  away. 

Who  says  thy  day  is  o'er  ?  Control, 
My  heart,  that  bitter  first  emotion  ; 

While  men  shall  reverence  the  steadfast  soul, 
The  heart  in  silent  self-devotion 


TO  LA  MARTI NE 


279 


Breaking,  the  mild,  heroic  mien, 
Thou  'It  need  no  prop  of  marble,  Lamartine. 

If  France  reject  thee,  't  is  not  thine, 

But  her  own,  exile  that  she  utters ; 

Ideal  France,  the  deathless,  the  divine, 

Will  be  where  thy  white  pennon  flutters, 
As  once  the  nobler  Athens  went 

With  Aristides  into  banishment. 

No  fitting  metewand  hath  To-day 

For  measuring  spirits  of  thy  stature ; 

Only  the  Future  can  reach  up  to  lay 
The  laurel  on  that  lofty  nature, 
Bard,  who  with  some  diviner  art 

Hast  touched  the  bard's  true  lyre,  a  nation's  heart. 

Swept  by  thy  hand,  the  gladdened  chords, 

Crashed  now  in  discords  fierce  by  others, 

Gave  forth  one  note  beyond  all  skill  of  words, 
And  chimed  together,  We  are  brothers. 
O  poem  unsurpassed !  it  ran 

All  round  the  world,  unlocking  man  to  man. 

France  is  too  poor  to  pay  alone 

The  service  of  that  ample  spirit ; 
Paltry  seem  low  dictatorship  and  throne, 

Weighed  with  thy  self -renouncing  merit; 
They  had  to  thee  been  rust  and  loss ; 
Thy  aim  was  higher,  —  thou  hast  climbed  a  Cross  J 


280 


MEMORIAL  VERSES 


TO  JOHN  G.  PALFREY 

There  are  who  triumph  in  a  losing  cause, 
Who  can  put  on  defeat,  as 't  were  a  wreath 
Unwithering  in  the  adverse  popular  breath, 

Safe  from  the  blasting  demagogue's  applause ; 

'T  is  they  who  stand  for  Freedom  and  God's 
laws. 

And  so  stands  Palfrey  now,  as  Marvell  stood, 
Loyal  to  Truth  dethroned,  nor  could  be  wooed 

To  trust  the  playful  tiger's  velvet  paws : 
And  if  the  second  Charles  brought  in  decay 

Of  ancient  virtue,  if  it  well  might  wring 
Souls  that  had  broadened  'neath  a  nobler  day, 

To  see  a  losel,  marketable  king 
Fearfully  watering  with  his  realm's  best  blood 

Cromwell's  quenched  bolts,  that  erst  had  cracked 
and  flamed, 

Scaring,  through  all  their  depths  of  courtier  mud, 
Europe's   crowned   bloodsuckers,  —  how  more 
ashamed 

Ought  we  to  be,  who  see  Corruption's  flood 
Still  rise  o'er  last  year's  mark,  to  mine  away 
Our*  brazen  idol's  feet  of  treacherous  clay  ! 

O  utter  degradation !    Freedom  turned 
Slavery's  vile  bawd,  to  cozen  and  betray 
To  the  old  lecher's  clutch  a  maiden  prey, 

If  so  a  loathsome  pander's  fee  be  earned ! 
And  we  are  silent,  —  we  who  daily  tread 


TO  JOHN  G.  PALFREY 


281 


A  soil  sublime,  at  least,  with  heroes'  graves  !  — 

Beckon  no  more,  shades  of  the  noble  dead ! 
Be  dumb,  ye  heaven-touched  lips  of  winds  and 
waves ! 

Or  hope  to  rouse  some  Coptic  dullard,  hid 
Ages  ago,  wrapt  stiffly,  fold  on  fold, 
With  cerements  close,  to  wither  in  the  cold, 

Forever  hushed,  and  sunless  pyramid  ! 

Beauty  and  Truth,  and  all  that  these  contain, 
Drop  not  like  ripened  fruit  about  our  feet ; 

We  climb  to  them  through  years  of  sweat  and 
pain  ; 

Without  long  struggle,  none  did  e'er  attain 
The  downward  look  from  Quiet's  blissful  seat : 

Though  present  loss  may  be  the  hero's  part, 

Yet  none  can  rob  him  of  the  victor  heart 
Whereby  the  broad-realmed  future  is  subdued, 

And  Wrong,  which  now  insults  from  triumph's 
car, 

Sending  her  vulture  hope  to  raven  far, 
Is  made  unwilling  tributary  of  Good. 

O  Mother  State,  how  quenched  thy  Sinai  fires ! 

Is  there  none  left  of  thy  stanch  Mayflower  breed  ? 
No  spark  among  the  ashes  of  thy  sires, 

Of  Virtue's  altar-flame  the  kindling  seed  ? 
Are  these  thy  great  men,  these  that  cringe  and 
creep, 

And  writhe  through  slimy  ways  to  place  and 
power  ?  — 

How  long,  O  Lord,  before  thy  wrath  shall  reap 


282 


MEMORIAL  VERSES 


Our  frail-stemmed  summer  prosperings  in  their 
flower  ? 

Oh  for  one  hour  of  that  undaunted  stock 
That  went  with  Vane  and  Sidney  to  the  block ! 

Oh  for  a  whiff  of  Naseby,  that  would  sweep, 
With  its  stern  Puritan  besom,  all  this  chaff 
From  the   Lord's  threshing-floor!     Yet  more 
than  half 

The  victory  is  attained,  when  one  or  two, 

Through  the  fool's  laughter  and  the  traitor's 
scorn, 

Beside  thy  sepulchre  can  bide  the  morn, 
Crucified  Truth,  when  thou  shalt  rise  anew. 

TO  W.  L.  GARRISON 

"Some  time  afterward,  it  was  reported  to  me  by  the  city  offi- 
cers that  they  had  ferreted  out  the  paper  and  its  editor  ;  that  his 
office  was  an  obscure  hole,  his  only  visible  auxiliary  a  negro  boy, 
and  his  supporters  a  few  very  insignificant  persons  of  all  colors. " 
—  Letter  of  H.  G.  Otis. 

In  a  small  chamber,  friendless  and  unseen, 

Toiled  o'er  his  types  one  poor,  unlearned  young 
man ; 

The  place  was  dark,  unfurnitured,  and  mean  ; 
Yet  there  the  freedom  of  a  race  began. 

Help  came  but  slowly ;  surely  no  man  yet 
Put  lever  to  the  heavy  world  with  less ; 

What  need  of  help  ?    He  knew  how  types  were  set, 
He  had  a  dauntless  spirit,  and  a  press. 


i 


TO  W.  L.  GARRISON 


283 


Such  earnest  natures  are  the  fiery  pith, 

The  compact  nucleus,  round  which  systems  grow ; 

Mass  after  mass  becomes  inspired  therewith, 
And  whirls  impregnate  with  the  central  glow. 

O  Truth  !  O  Freedom  !  how  are  ye  still  born 
In  the  rude  stable,  in  the  manger  nurst ! 

What  humble  hands  unbar  those  gates  of  morn 
Through  which  the  splendors  of  the  New  Day 
burst ! 

What !  shall  one  monk,  scarce  known  beyond  his 
cell, 

Front  Rome's  far-reaching  bolts,  and  scorn  her 
frown  ? 

Brave  Luther  answered  Yes  ;  that  thunder's  swell 
Rocked  Europe,  and  discharmed  the  triple  crown. 

Whatever  can  be  known  of  earth  we  know, 

Sneered  Europe's  wise  men,  in  their  snail-shells 
curled ; 

No  !  said  one  man  in  Genoa,  and  that  No 

Out  of  the  darkness  summoned  this  New  World. 

Who  is  it  will  not  dare  himself  to  trust  ? 

Who  is  it  hath  not  strength  to  stand  alone  ? 
Who  is  it  thwarts  and  bilks  the  inward  must  ? 

He  and  his  works,  like  sand,  from  earth  are 
blown. 

Men  of  a  thousand  shifts  and  wiles,  look  here ! 
See  one  straightforward  conscience  put  in  pawn 


284 


MEMORIAL  VERSES 


To  win  a  world  ;  see  the  obedient  sphere 
By  bravery's  simple  gravitation  drawn  ! 

Shall  we  not  heed  the  lesson  taught  of  old, 
And  by  the  Present's  lips  repeated  still, 

In  our  own  single  manhood  to  be  bold, 

Fortressed  in  conscience  and  impregnable  will  ? 

We  stride  the  river  daily  at  its  spring, 

Nor,  in  our  childish  thoughtlessness,  foresee, 

What  myriad  vassal  streams  shall  tribute  bring, 
How  like  an  equal  it  shall  greet  the  sea. 

O  small  beginnings,  ye  are  great  and  strong, 
Based  on  a  faithful  heart  and  weariless  brain ! 

Ye  build  the  future  fair,  ye  conquer  wrong, 
Ye  earn  the  crown,  and  wear  it  not  in  vain. 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  C.  T.  TORREY 

Woe  worth  the  hour  when  it  is  crime 

To  plead  the  poor  dumb  bondman's  cause, 
When  all  that  makes  the  heart  sublime, 
The  glorious  throbs  that  conquer  time, 
Are  traitors  to  our  cruel  laws  ! 

He  strove  among  God's  suffering  poor 
One  gleam  of  brotherhood  to  send  ; 

The  dungeon  oped  its  hungry  door 

To  give  the  truth  one  martyr  more, 

Then  shut,  —  and  here  behold  the  end ! 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  C.  T.  TORRE Y  285 


O  Mother  State  !  when  this  was  done, 
No  pitying  throe  thy  bosom  gave ; 

Silent  thou  saw'st  the  death-shroud  spun, 

And  now  thou  givest  to  thy  son 
The  stranger's  charity,  —  a  grave. 

Must  it  be  thus  forever?    No  ! 

The  hand  of  God  sows  not  in  vain. 
Long  sleeps  the  darkling  seed  below, 
The  seasons  come,  and  change,  and  go, 

And  all  the  fields  are  deep  with  grain. 

Although  our  brother  lie  asleep, 

Man's  heart  still  struggles,  still  aspires  ; 
His  grave  shall  quiver  yet,  while  deep 
Through  the  brave  Bay  State's  pulses  leap 
Her  ancient  energies  and  fires. 

When  hours  like  this  the  senses'  gush 

Have  stilled,  and  left  the  spirit  room, 
It  hears  amid  the  eternal  hush 
The  swooping  pinions'  dreadful  rush, 

That  bring  the  vengeance  and  the  doom  ;  — 

Not  man's  brute  vengeance,  such  as  rends 

What  rivets  man  to  man  apart,  — 
God  doth  not  so  bring  round  his  ends, 
But  waits  the  ripened  time,  and  sends 
His  mercy  to  the  oppressor's  heart. 


286 


MEMORIAL  VERSES 


ELEGY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  DR.  CHANNING 

I  DO  not  come  to  weep  above  thy  pall, 

And  mourn  the  dying-out  of  noble  powers  ; 

The  poet's  clearer  eye  should  see,  in  all 

Earth's  seeming  woe,  seed  of  immortal  flow- 
ers. 

Truth  needs  no  champions  :  in  the  infinite  deep 
Of  everlasting  Soul  her  strength  abides, 

Erom  Nature's  heart  her  mighty  pulses  leap, 

Through  Nature's  veins  her  strength,  undying, 
tides. 

Peace  is  more  strong  than  war,  and  gentleness, 
Where  force  were  vain,  makes  conquest  o'er  the 
wave ; 

And  love  lives  on  and  hath  a  power  to  bless, 
When  they  who  loved  are  hidden  in  the  grave. 

The  sculptured  marble  brags  of  death- strewn  fields, 
And  Glory's  epitaph  is  writ  in  blood  ; 

But  Alexander  now  to  Plato  yields, 

Clarkson   will   stand  where  Wellington  hath 
stood. 

I  watch  the  circle  of  the  eternal  years, 
And  read  forever  in  the  storied  page 
One  lengthened  roll  of  blood,  and  wrong,  and 
tears, 

One  onward  step  of  Truth  from  age  to  age. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  DR.  C  BANNING  287 


The  poor  are  crushed ;  the  tyrants  link  their  chain  ; 

The  poet  sings  through  narrow  dungeon-grates  ; 
Man's  hope  lies  quenched  ;  and,  lo  !  with  steadfast 
gain 

Freedom  doth  forge  her  mail  of  adverse  fates. 

Men  slay  the  prophets ;  fagot,  rack,  and  cross 
Make  up  the  groaning  record  of  the  past ; 

But  Evil's  triumphs  are  her  endless  loss, 
And  sovereign  Beauty  wins  the  soul  at  last. 

No  power  can  die  that  ever  wrought  for  Truth ; 

Thereby  a  law  of  Nature  it  became, 
And  lives  unwithered  in  its  blithesome  youth, 

When  he  who  called  it  forth  is  but  a  name. 

Therefore  I  cannot  think  thee  wholly  gone ; 

The  better  part  of  thee  is  with  us  still ; 
Thy  soul  its  hampering  clay  aside  hath  thrown, 

And  only  freer  wrestles  with  the  111. 

Thou  livest  in  the  life  of  all  good  things  ; 

What  words  thou  spak'st  for  Freedom  shall  not 
die ; 

Thou  sleepest  not,  for  now  thy  Love  hath  wings 
To  soar  where  hence  thy  Hope  could  hardly  fly. 

And  often,  from  that  other  world,  on  this 

Some  gleams  from  great  souls  gone  before  may 
shine, 

To  shed  on  struggling  hearts  a  clearer  bliss, 
And  clothe  the  Right  with  lustre  more  divine. 


288 


MEMORIAL  VERSES 


Thou  art  not  idle :  in  thy  higher  sphere 
Thy  spirit  bends  itself  to  loving  tasks, 

And  strength  to  perfect  what  it  dreamed  of  here 
Is  all  the  crown  and  glory  that  it  asks. 

For  sure,  in  Heaven's  wide  chambers,  there  is 
room 

For  love  and  pity,  and  for  helpful  deeds ; 
Else  were  our  summons  thither  but  a  doom 
To  life  more  vain  than  this  in  clayey  weeds. 

From  off  the  starry  mountain-peak  of  song, 
Thy  spirit  shows  me,  in  the  coming  time, 

An  earth  unwithered  by  the  foot  of  wrong, 
A  race  revering  its  own  soul  sublime. 

What  wars,  what  martyrdoms,  what  crimes,  may 
come, 

Thou  knowest  not,  nor  I ;  but  God  will  lead 
The  prodigal  soul  from  want  and  sorrow  home, 
And  Eden  ope  her  gates  to  Adam's  seed. 

Farewell !  good  man,  good  angel  now  !  this  hand 
Soon,  like  thine  own,  shall  lose  its  cunning  too ; 

Soon  shall  this  soul,  like  thine,  bewildered  stand, 
Then  leap  to  thread  the  free,  unf athomed  blue : 

When  that  day  comes,  oh,  may  this  hand  grow 
cold, 

Busy,  like  thine,  for  Freedom  and  the  Right ; 
Oh,  may  this  soul,  like  thine,  be  ever  bold 
To  face  dark  Slavery's  encroaching  blight ! 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  HOOD  289 


This  laurel-leaf  I  cast  upon  thy  bier  ; 

Let  worthier  hands  than  these  thy  wreath  intwine ; 
Upon  thy  hearse  I  shed  no  useless  tear,  — 

For  us  weep  rather  thou  in  calm  divine  ! 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  HOOD 

Another  star  'neath  Time's  horizon  dropped, 
To  gleam  o'er  unknown  lands  and  seas  ; 

Another  heart  that  beat  for  freedom  stopped,  — 
What  mournful  words  are  these ! 

O  Love  Divine,  that  claspest  our  tired  earth, 

And  lullest  it  upon  thy  heart, 
Thou  knowest  how  much  a  gentle  soul  is  worth 

To  teach  men  what  thou  art ! 

His  was  a  spirit  that  to  all  thy  poor 

Was  kind  as  slumber  after  pain : 
Why  ope  so  soon  thy  heaven-deep  Quiet's  door 

And  call  him  home  again  ? 

Freedom  needs  all  her  poets  :  it  is  they 

Who  give  her  aspirations  wings, 
And  to  the  wiser  law  of  music  sway 

Her  wild  imaginings. 

Yet  thou  hast  called  him,  nor  art  thou  unkind, 

O  Love  Divine,  for 't  is  thy  will 
That  gracious  natures  leave  their  love  behind 

To  work  for  Mercy  still. 


290 


MEMORIAL  VERSES 


Let  laurelled  marbles  weigh  on  other  tombs, 
Let  anthems  peal  for  other  dead, 

Rustling  the  bannered  depth  of  minster-glooms 
With  their  exulting  spread. 

His  epitaph  shall  mock  the  short-lived  stone, 

No  lichen  shall  its  lines  efface, 
He  needs  these  few  and  simple  lines  alone 

To  mark  his  resting-place :  — 

"  Here  lies  a  Poet.    Stranger,  if  to  thee 
His  claim  to  memory  be  obscure, 
If  thou  wouldst  learn  how  truly  great  was  he, 
Go,  ask  it  of  the  poor." 


THE  VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL 


According  to  the  mythology  of  the  Romancers,  the  San  Greal, 
or  Holy  Grail,  was  the  cup  out  of  which  Jesus  partook  of  the  Last 
Supper  with  his  disciples.  It  was  brought  into  England  by  Joseph 
of  Arimathea,  and  remained  there,  an  object  of  pilgrimage  and 
adoration,  for  many  years  in  the  keeping  of  his  lineal  descendants. 
It  was  incumbent  upon- those  who  had  charge  of  it  to  be  chaste  in 
thought,  word,  and  deed ;  but  one  of  the  keepers  having  broken 
this  condition,  the  Holy  Grail  disappeared.  From  that  time  it 
was  a  favorite  enterprise  of  the  knights  of  Arthur  's  court  to  go  in 
search  of  it.  Sir  Galahad  was  at  last  successful  in  finding  it,  as 
may  be  read  in  the  seventeenth  book  of  the  Romance  of  King 
Arthur.  Tennyson  has  made  Sir  Galahad  the  subject  of  one  of 
the  most  exquisite  of  his  poems. 

The  plot  (if  I  may  give  that  name  to  anything  so  slight)  of  the 
following  poem  is  my  own,  and,  to  serve  its  purposes,  I  have  en- 
larged the  circle  of  competition  in  search  of  the  miraculous  cup  in 
such  a  manner  as  to  include,  not  only  other  persons  than  the  heroes 
of  the  Round  Table,  but  also  a  period  of  time  subsequent  to  the 
supposed  date  of  King  Arthur's  reign. 

PRELUDE  TO  PART  FIRST 

Over  his  keys  the  musing  organist, 

Beginning  doubtfully  and  far  away, 
First  lets  his  fingers  wander  as  they  list, 

And  builds  a  bridge  from  Dreamland  for  his  lay  : 
Then,  as  the  touch  of  bis  loved  instrument 

Gives  hope  and  fervor,  nearer  draws  his  theme, 
First  guessed  by  faint  auroral  flushes  sent 

Along  the  wavering  vista  of  his  dream. 


292        THE  VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL 

Not  only  around  our  infancy 
Doth  heaven  with  all  its  splendors  lie ; 
Daily,  with  souls  that  cringe  and  plot, 
We  Sinais  climb  and  know  it  not. 

Over  our  manhood  bend  the  skies ; 

Against  our  fallen  and  traitor  lives 
The  great  winds  utter  prophecies  ; 

With  our  faint  hearts  the  mountain  strives ; 
Its  arms  outstretched,  the  druid  wood 

Waits  with  its  benedicite  ; 
And  to  our  age's  drowsy  blood 

Still  shouts  the  inspiring  sea. 

Earth  gets  its  price  for  what  Earth  gives  us  ; 

The  beggar  is  taxed  for  a  corner  to  die  in, 
The  priest  hath  his  fee  who  comes  and  shrives 
us, 

We  bargain  for  the  graves  we  lie  in ; 
At  the  devil's  booth  are  all  things  sold, 
Each  ounce  of  dross  costs  its  ounce  of  gold  ; 

For  a  cap  and  bells  our  lives  we  pay, 
Bubbles  we  buy  with  a  whole  soul's  tasking : 

'T  is  heaven  alone  that  is  given  away, 
'T  is  only  God  may  be  had  for  the  asking ; 
No  price  is  set  on  the  lavish  summer  ; 
June  may  be  had  by  the  poorest  Comer. 

And  what  is  so  rare  as  a  day  in  J une  ? 

Then,  if  ever,  come  perfect  days ; 
Then  Heaven  tries  earth  if  it  be  in  tune, 

And  over  it  softly  her  warm  ear  lays  ; 


THE  VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL  293 


Whether  we  look,  or  whether  we  listen, 
We  hear  life  murmur,  or  see  it  glisten ; 
Every  clod  feels  a  stir  of  might, 

An  instinct  within  it  that  reaches  and  towers, 
And,  groping  blindly  above  it  for  light, 

Climbs  to  a  soul  in  grass  and  flowers ; 
The  flush  of  life  may  well  be  seen 

Thrilling  back  over  hills  and  valleys  ; 
The  cowslip  startles  in  meadows  green, 

The  buttercup  catches  the  sun  in  its  chalice, 
And  there 's  never  a  leaf  nor  a  blade  too  mean 

To  be  some  happy  creature's  palace  ; 
The  little  bird  sits  at  his  door  in  the  sun, 

Atilt  like  a  blossom  among  the  leaves, 
And  lets  his  illumined  being  o'errun 

With  the  deluge  of  summer  it  receives  ; 
His  mate  feels  the  eggs  beneath  her  wings, 
And  the  heart  in  her  dumb  breast  flutters  and 
sings  ; 

He  sings  to  the  wide  world,  and  she  to  her  nest,  — 
In  the  nice  ear  of  Nature  which  song  is  the  best  ? 

Now  is  the  high-tide  of  the  year, 

And  whatever  of  life  hath  ebbed  away 
Comes  flooding  back  with  a  ripply  cheer, 

Into  every  bare  inlet  and  creek  and  bay  ; 
Now  the  heart  is  so  full  that  a  drop  overfills  it, 
We  are  happy  now  because  God  wills  it ; 
No  matter  how  barren  the  past  may  have  been, 
'T  is  enough  for  us  now  that  the  leaves  are  green ; 
We  sit  in  the  warm  shade  and  feel  right  well 
How  the  sap  creeps  up  and  the  blossoms  swell ; 


294       THE  VISION  OF  SIR  LA  UNFA  L 


We  may  shut  our  eyes,  but  we  cannot  help  knowing 
That  skies  are  clear  and  grass  is  growing ; 
The  breeze  comes  whispering  in  our  ear, 
That  dandelions  are  blossoming  near, 

That  maize  has  sprouted,  that  streams  are  flow- 
ing, 

That  the  river  is  bluer  than  the  sky, 
That  the  robin  is  plastering  his  house  hard  by  ; 
And  if  the  breeze  kept  the  good  news  back, 
For  other  couriers  we  should  not  lack ; 

We  could  guess  it  all  by  yon  heifer's  lowing,  — 
And  hark !  how  clear  bold  chanticleer, 
Warmed  with  the  new  wine  of  the  year, 

Tells  all  in  his  lusty  crowing ! 

Joy  comes,  grief  goes,  we  know  not  how ; 
Everything  is  happy  now, 

Everything  is  upward  striving ; 
'T  is  as  easy  now  for  the  heart  to  be  true 
As  for  grass  to  be  green  or  skies  to  be  blue,  — 

'T  is  the  natural  way  of  living : 
Who  knows  whither  the  clouds  have  fled  ? 

In  the  unscarred  heaven  they  leave  no  wake ; 
And  the  eyes  forget  the  tears  they  have  shed, 

The  heart  forgets  its  sorrow  and  ache ; 
The  soul  partakes  the  season's  youth, 

And  the  sulphurous  rifts  of  passion  and  woe 
Lie  deep  'neath  a  silence  pure  and  smooth, 

Like  burnt-out  craters  healed  with  snow. 
What  wonder  if  Sir  Launfal  now 
Remembered  the  keeping  of  his  vow  ? 


THE  VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL  295 


PART  FIRST 
I. 

"  My  golden  spurs  now  bring  to  me, 

And  bring  to  me  my  richest  mail, 
For  to-morrow  I  go  over  land  and  sea 

In  search  of  the  Holy  Grail ; 
Shall  never  a  bed  for  me  be  spread, 
Nor  shall  a  pillow  be  under  my  head, 
Till  I  begin  my  vo  w  to  keep ; 
Here  on  the  rushes  will  I  sleep, 
And  perchance  there  may  come  a  vision  true 
Ere  day  create  the  world  anew." 

Slowly  Sir  Launfal's  eyes  grew  dim, 

Slumber  fell  like  a  cloud  on  him, 
And  into  his  soul  the  vision  flew. 

II. 

The  crows  flapped  over  by  twos  and  threes, 
In  the  pool  drowsed  the  cattle  up  to  their  knees, 
The  little  birds  sang  as  if  it  were 
The  one  day  of  summer  in  all  the  year, 
And  the  very  leaves  seemed  to  sing  on  the  trees : 
The  castle  alone  in  the  landscape  lay 
Like  an  outpost  of  winter,  dull  and  gray : 
'T  was  the  proudest  hall  in  the  North  Coun- 
tree, 

And  never  its  gates  might  opened  be, 
Save  to  lord  or  lady  of  high  degree  ; 
Summer  besieged  it  on  every  side, 
But  the  churlish  stone  her  assaults  defied ; 


296        THE  VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL 


She  could  not  scale  the  chilly  wall, 

Though  around  it  for  leagues  her  pavilions  tall 

Stretched  left  and  right, 

Over  the  hills  and  out  of  sight ; 

Green  and  broad  was  every  tent, 

And  out  of  each  a  murmur  went 
Till  the  breeze  fell  off  at  night. 

in. 

The  drawbridge  dropped  with  a  surly  clang, 
And  through  the  dark  arch  a  charger  sprang, 
Bearing  Sir  Launfal,  the  maiden  knight, 
In  his  gilded  mail,  that  flamed  so  bright 
It  seemed  the  dark  castle  had  gathered  all 
Those  shafts  the  fierce  sun  had  shot  over  its 
wall 

In  his  siege  of  three  hundred  summers  long, 
And,  binding  them  all  in  one  blazing  sheaf, 

Had  cast  them  forth  :  so,  young  and  strong, 
And  lightsome  as  a  locust-leaf, 
Sir  Launfal  flashed  forth  in  his  maiden  mail, 
To  seek  in  all  climes  for  the  Holy  Grail. 

IV. 

It  was  morning  on  hill  and  stream  and  tree, 
And  morning  in  the  young  knight's  heart ; 

Only  the  castle  moodily 

Rebuffed  the  gifts  of  the  sunshine  free, 
And  gloomed  by  itself  apart ; 

The  season  brimmed  all  other  things  up 

Full  as  the  rain  fills  the  pitcher-plant  s  cup. 


THE  VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL  297 


As  Sir  Launfal  made  morn  through  the  darksome 
gate, 

He  was  'ware  of  a  leper,  crouched  by  the  same, 
Who  begged  with  his  hand  and  moaned  as  he  sate  ; 

And  a  loathing  over  Sir  Launfal  came  ; 
The  sunshine  went  out  of  his  soul  with  a  thrill, 

The  flesh  'neath  his  armor  'gan  shrink  and  crawl, 
And  midway  its  leap  his  heart  stood  still 

Like  a  frozen  waterfall ; 
For  this  man,  so  foul  and  bent  of  stature, 
Rasped  harshly  against  his  dainty  nature, 
And  seemed  the  one  blot  on  the  summer  morn,  — 
So  he  tossed  him  a  piece  of  gold  in  scorn. 

VI. 

The  leper  raised  not  the  gold  from  the  dust : 
"  Better  to  me  the  poor  man's  crust, 
Better  the  blessing  of  the  poor, 
Though  I  turn  me  empty  from  his  door ; 
That  is  no  true  alms  which  the  hand  can  hold ; 
He  gives  only  the  worthless  gold 

Who  gives  from  a  sense  of  duty ; 
But  he  who  gives  but  a  slender  mite. 
And  gives  to  that  which  is  out  of  sight, 

That  thread  of  the  all-sustaining  Beauty 
Which  runs  through  all  and  doth  all  unite,  — 
The  hand  cannot  clasp  the  whole  of  his  alms, 
The  heart  outstretches  its  eager  palms, 
For  a  god  goes  with  it  and  makes  it  store 
To  the  soul  that  was  starving  in  darkness  before." 


298       THE  VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL 


PRELUDE  TO  PART  SECOND. 

Down  swept  the  chill  wind  from  the  mountain 
peak, 

From  the  snow  five  thousand  summers  old; 
On  open  wold  and  hilltop  bleak 

It  had  gathered  all  the  cold, 
And  whirled  it  like  sleet  on  the  wanderer's  cheek ; 
It  carried  a  shiver  everywhere 
From  the  unleafed  boughs  and  pastures  bare ; 
The  little  brook  heard  it  and  built  a  roof 
'Neath  which  he  could  house  him,  winter-proof ; 
All  night  by  the  white  stars'  frosty  gleams 
He  groined  his  arches  and  matched  his  beams ; 
Slender  and  clear  were  his  crystal  spars 
As  the  lashes  of  light  that  trim  the  stars : 
He  sculptured  every  summer  delight 
In  his  halls  and  chambers  out  of  sight ; 
Sometimes  his  tinkling  waters  slipt 
Down  through  a  frost-leaved  forest-crypt, 
Long,  sparkling  aisles  of  steel-stemmed  trees 
Bending  to  counterfeit  a  breeze ; 
Sometimes  the  roof  no  fretwork  knew 
But  silvery  mosses  that  downward  grew ; 
Sometimes  it  was  carved  in  sharp  relief 
With  quaint  arabesques  of  ice-fern  leaf ; 
Sometimes  it  was  simply  smooth  and  clear 
For  the  gladness  of  heaven  to  shine  through,  and 
here 

He  had  caught  the  nodding  bulrush-tops 
And  hung  them  thickly  with  diamond  drops, 


THE  VISION  OF  SIR  LA  UNFA  L  299 


That  crystalled  the  beams  of  moon  and  sun, 

And  made  a  star  of  every  one : 

No  mortal  builder's  most  rare  device 

Could  match  this  winter-palace  of  ice  ; 

'T  was  as  if  every  image  that  mirrored  lay 

In  his  depths  serene  through  the  summer  day, 

Each  fleeting  shadow  of  earth  and  sky, 

Lest  the  happy  model  should  be  lost, 
Had  been  mimicked  in  fairy  masonry 

By  the  elfin  builders  of  the  frost. 

Within  the  hall  are  song  and  laughter, 

The  cheeks  of  Christmas  glow  red  and  jolly, 
And  sprouting  is  every  corbel  and  rafter 

With  lightsome  green  of  ivy  and  holly ; 
Through  the  deep  gulf  of  the  chimney  wide 
Wallows  the  Yule-log's  roaring  tide ; 
The  broad  flame-pennons  droop  and  flap 

And  belly  and  tug  as  a  flag  in  the  wind  ; 
Like  a  locust  shrills  the  imprisoned  sap, 

Hunted  to  death  in  its  galleries  blind ; 
And  swift  little  troops  of  silent  sparks, 

Now  pausing,  now  scattering  away  as  in  fear, 
Go  threading  the  soot-forest's  tangled  darks 

Like  herds  of  startled  deer. 

But  the  wind  without  was  eager  and  sharp, 
Of  Sir  Launfal's  gray  hair  it  makes  a  harp, 
And  rattles  and  wrings 
The  icy  strings, 
Singing,  in  dreary  monotone, 
A  Christmas  carol  of  its  own, 


300       THE  VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL 


Whose  burden  still,  as  lie  might  guess, 
Was  "  Shelterless,  shelterless,  shelterless !  " 
The  voice  of  the  seneschal  flared  like  a  torch 
As  he  shouted  the  wanderer  away  from  the  porch, 
And  he  sat  in  the  gateway  and  saw  all  night 
The  great  hall-fire,  so  cheery  and  bold, 
Through  the  window-slits  of  the  castle  old, 
Build  out  its  piers  of  ruddy  light 
Against  the  drift  of  the  cold. 

PART  SECOND 
I. 

There  was  never  a  leaf  on  bush  or  tree, 
The  bare  boughs  rattled  shudderingly ; 
The  river  was  dumb  and  could  not  speak, 

For  the  weaver  Winter  its  shroud  had  spun ; 
A  single  crow  on  the  tree-top  bleak 

From  his  shining  feathers  shed  off  the  cold  sun ; 
Again  it  was  morning,  but  shrunk  and  cold, 
As  if  her  veins  were  sapless  and  old, 
And  she  rose  up  decrepitly 
For  a  last  dim  look  at  earth  and  sea. 

II. 

Sir  Launfal  turned  from  his  own  hard  gate, 

For  another  heir  in  his  earldom  sate ; 

An  old,  bent  man,  worn  out  and  frail, 

He  came  back  from  seeking  the  Holy  Grail ; 

Little  he  recked  of  his  earldom's  loss, 

No  more  on  his  surcoat  was  blazoned  the  cross, 


THE  VISION  OF  SIR  LA  UN  FA  L  301 


But  deep  in  his  soul  the  sign  he  wore, 
The  badge  of  the  suffering  and  the  poor. 

in. 

Sir  Launfal's  raiment  thin  and  spare 

Was  idle  mail  'gainst  the  barbed  air, 

For  it  was  just  at  the  Christmas  time ; 

So  he  mused,  as  he  sat,  of  a  sunnier  clime, 

And  sought  for  a  shelter  from  cold  and  snow 

In  the  light  and  warmth  of  long-ago ; 

He  sees  the  snake-like  caravan  crawl 

O'er  the  edge  of  the  desert,  black  and  small, 

Then  nearer  and  nearer,  till,  one  by  one, 

He  can  count  the  camels  in  the  sun, 

As  over  the  red-hot  sands  they  pass 

To  where,  in  its  slender  necklace  of  grass, 

The  little  spring  laughed  and  leapt  in  the  shade9 

And  with  its  own  self  like  an  infant  played, 

And  waved  its  signal  of  palms. 

IY. 

"  For  Christ's  sweet  sake,  I  beg  an  alms  "  ; 
The  happy  camels  may  reach  the  spring, 
But  Sir  Launfal  sees  only  the  grewsome  things 
The  leper,  lank  as  the  rain-blanched  bone, 
That  cowers  beside  him,  a  thing  as  lone 
And  white  as  the  ice-isles  of  Northern  seas 
In  the  desolate  horror  of  his  disease. 

v. 

And  Sir  Launfal  said,  "  I  behold  in  thee 
An  image  of  Him  who  died  on  the  tree  ; 


302        THE  VISION  OF  SIR  LA  UNFA L 


Thou  also  hast  had  thy  crown  of  thorns, 

Thou  also  hast  had  the  world's  buffets  and  scorns, 

And  to  thy  life  were  not  denied 

The  wounds  in  the  hands  and  feet  and  side : 

Mild  Mary's  Son,  acknowledge  me  ; 

Behold,  through  him,  I  give  to  thee !  " 

VI. 

Then  the  soul  of  the  leper  stood  up  in  his  eyes 

And  looked  at  Sir  Launfal,  and  straightway  he 
Remembered  in  what  a  haughtier  guise 

He  had  flung  an  alms  to  leprosie, 
When  he  girt  his  young  life  up  in  gilded  mail 
And  set  forth  in  search  of  the  Holy  Grail. 
The  heart  within  him  was  ashes  and  dust ; 
He  parted  in  twain  his  single  crust, 
He  broke  the  ice  on  the  streamlet's  brink, 
And  gave  the  leper  to  eat  and  drink, 
'T  was  a  mouldy  crust  of  coarse  brown  bread, 

'T  was  water  out  of  a  wooden  bowl,  — 
Yet  with  fine  wheaten  bread  was  the  leper  fed, 

And 't  was  red  wine  he  drank  with  his  thirsty  soul. 

VII. 

As  Sir  Launfal  mused  with  a  downcast  face, 

A  light  shone  round  about  the  place  ; 

The  leper  no  longer  crouched  at  his  side, 

But  stood  before  him  glorified, 

Shining  and  tall  and  fair  and  straight 

As  the  pillar  that  stood  by  the  Beautiful  Gate,  — 

Himself  the  Gate  whereby  men  can 

Enter  the  temple  of  God  in  Man. 


THE  VISION  OF  SIR  LA  UNFA L  303 


VIII. 

His  words  were  shed  softer  than  leaves  from  the 
pine, 

And  they  fell  on  Sir  Launfal  as  snows  on  the 
brine, 

That  mingle  their  softness  and  quiet  in  one 

With  the  shaggy  unrest  they  float  down  upon ; 

And  the  voice  that  was  softer  than  silence  said, 

"  Lo,  it  is  I,  be  not  afraid ! 

In  many  climes,  without  avail, 

Thou  hast  spent  thy  life  for  the  Holy  Grail ; 

Behold,  it  is  here,  —  this  cup  which  thou 

Didst  fill  at  the  streamlet  for  me  but  now  ; 

This  crust  is  my  body  broken  for  thee, 

This  water  his  blood  that  died  on  the  tree ; 

The  Holy  Supper  is  kept,  indeed, 

In  whatso  we  share  with  another's  need ; 

Not  what  we  give,  but  what  we  share, 

For  the  gift  without  the  giver  is  bare  ; 

Who  gives  himself  with  his  alms  feeds  three. 

Himself,  his  hungering  neighbor,  and  me." 

IX. 

Sir  Launfal  awoke  as  from  a  swound : 
"  The  Grail  in  my  castle  here  is  found  ! 
Hang  my  idle  armor  up  on  the  wall, 
Let  it  be  the  spider's  banquet-hall ; 
He  must  be  fenced  with  stronger  mail 
Who  would  seek  and  find  the  Holy  Grail." 


304        THE  VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL 


X. 

The  castle  gate  stands  open  now, 

And  the  wanderer  is  welcome  to  the  hall 

As  the  hangbird  is  to  the  elm-tree  bough ; 
No  longer  scowl  the  turrets  tall, 

The  Summer's  long  siege  at  last  is  o'er  ; 

When  the  first  poor  outcast  went  in  at  the  door, 

She  entered  with  him  in  disguise, 

And  mastered  the  fortress  by  surprise  ; 

There  is  no  spot  she  loves  so  well  on  ground, 

She  lingers  and  smiles  there  the  whole  year  round ; 

The  meanest  serf  on  Sir  Launfal's  land 

Has  hall  and  bower  at  his  command ; 

And  there 's  no  poor  man  in  the  North  Countree 

But  is  lord  of  the  earldom  as  much  as  he. 


LETTER  FROM  BOSTON 


December,  1846. 

Dear  M.   1 

By  way  of  saving  time, 
I  '11  do  this  letter  up  in  rhyme, 
Whose  slim  stream  through  four  pages  flows 
Ere  one  is  packed  with  tight-screwed  prose, 
Threading  the  tube  of  an  epistle, 
Smooth  as  a  child's  breath  through  a  whistle 

The  great  attraction  now  of  all 
Is  the  "  Bazaar  "  at  Faneuil  Hall, 
Where  swarm  the  anti-slavery  folks 
As  thick,  dear  Miller,  as  your  jokes. 
There 's  Garrison,  his  features  very 
Benign  for  an  incendiary, 
Beaming  forth  sunshine  through  his  glasses 
On  the  surrounding  lads  and  lasses, 
(No  bee  could  blither  be,  or  brisker,)  — 
A  Pickwick  somehow  turned  John  Ziska, 
His  bump  of  firmness  swelling  up 
Like  a  rye  cupcake  from  its  cup. 
And  there,  too,  was  his  English  tea-set, 
Which  in  his  ear  a  kind  of  flea  set, 
His  Uncle  Samuel  for  its  beauty 
Demanding  sixty  dollars  duty, 

1  Mr.  James  Miller  McKim. 


306 


LETTER  FROM  BOSTON 


('T  was  natural  Sam  should  serve  his  trunk  ill, 
For  G.,  you  know,  has  cut  his  uncle,) 
Whereas,  had  he  but  once  made  tea  in 't, 
His  uncle's  ear  had  had  the  flea  in 't, 
There  being  not  a  cent  of  duty 
On  any  pot  that  ever  drew  tea.1 

There  was  Maria  Chapman,  too, 
With  her  swift  eyes  of  clear  steel-blue, 
The  coiled-up  mainspring  of  the  Fair, 
Originating  everywhere 
The  expansive  force  without  a  sound 
That  whirls  a  hundred  wheels  around, 
Herself  meanwhile  as  calm  and  still 
As  the  bare  crown  of  Prospect  Hill ; 
A  noble  woman,  brave  and  apt, 
Cumaean  sibyl  not  more  rapt, 
Who  might,  with  those  fair  tresses  shorn9 
The  Maid  of  Orleans'  casque  have  worn, 
Herself  the  J oan  of  our  Ark, 
For  every  shaft  a  shining  mark. 

And  there,  too,  was  Eliza  Follen, 
Who  scatters  fruit-creating  pollen 
Where'er  a  blossom  she  can  find 

1  When  Mr.  Garrison  visited  Edinburgh  in  1840,  a  handsome 
silver  tea-set  was  presented  to  him  by  his  friends  in  that  city. 
On  the  arrival  of  this  gift  at  the  Boston  custom-house,  it  was 
charged  with  an  enormous  entrance  duty,  which  would  have  been 
remitted  if  the  articles  had  ever  been  used.  It  was  supposed  that 
if  the  owner  had  not  been  the  leader  of  the  unpopular  abolition- 
ists, this  heavy  impost  would  not  have  been  laid  on  a  friendly 
British  tribute  to  an  eminent  American. 


LETTER  FROM  BOSTON 


307 


Hardy  enough  for  Truth's  north  wind, 
Each  several  point  of  all  her  face 
Tremblingly  bright  with  the  inward  grace, 
As  if  all  motion  gave  it  light 
Like  phosphorescent  seas  at  night. 

There  jokes  our  Edmund,1  plainly  son 

Of  him  who  bearded  Jefferson, 

A  non-resistant  by  conviction, 

But  with  a  bump  in  contradiction, 

So  that  whene'er  it  gets  a  chance 

His  pen  delights  to  play  the  lance, 

And  —  you  may  doubt  it,  or  believe  it  — 

Full  at  the  head  of  Joshua  Leavitt 

The  very  calumet  he 'd  launch, 

And  scourge  him  with  the  olive  branch, 

A  master  with  the  foils  of  wit, 

'T  is  natural  he  should  love  a  hit ; 

A  gentleman,  withal,  and  scholar,' 

Only  base  things  excite  his  choler, 

And  then  his  satire 's  keen  and  thin 

As  the  lithe  blade  of  Saladin. 

Good  letters  are  a  gift  apart, 

And  his  are  gems  of  Flemish  art, 

True  offspring  of  the  fireside  Muse, 

Not  a  rag-gathering  of  news 

Like  a  new  hopfield  which  is  all  poles, 

But  of  one  blood  with  Horace  Walpole's. 

There,  with  one  hand  behind  his  back, 
Stands  Phillips  buttoned  in  a  sack, 

1  Edmund  Quincy. 


308 


LETTER  FROM  BOSTON 


Our  Attic  orator,  our  Chatham ; 
Old  fogies,  when  he  lightens  at  'em, 
Shrivel  like  leaves ;  to  him 't  is  granted 
Always  to  say  the  word  that 's  wanted, 
So  that  he  seems  but  speaking  clearer. 
The  tiptop  thought  of  every  hearer  ; 
Each  flash  his  brooding  heart  lets  fall 
Fires  what 's.  combustible  in  all, 
And  sends  the  applauses  bursting  in 
Like  an  exploded  magazine. 
His  eloquence  no  frothy  show, 
The  gutter's  street-polluted  flow, 
No  Mississippi's  yellow  flood 
Whose  shoalness  can't  be  seen  for  mud  ;  — - 
So  simply  clear,  serenely  deep, 
So  silent-strong  its  graceful  sweep, 
None  measures  its  unrippling  force 
Who  has  not  striven  to  stem  its  course ; 
How  fare  their  barques  who  think  to  play 
With  smooth  Niagara's  mane  of  spray, 
Let  Austin's  total  shipwreck  say.1 
He  never  spoke  a  word  too  much  — 
Except  of  Story,  or  some  such, 
Whom,  though  condemned  by  ethics  strict, 
The  heart  refuses  to  convict. 

Beyond,  a  crater  in  each  eye, 

Sways  brown,  broad-shouldered  Pillsbury, 

1  On  the  occasion  of  the  murder  of  Rev.  Elijah  P.  Lovejoy, 
editor  of  an  anti-slavery  newspaper  at  Alton,  Illinois,  an  indigna- 
tion meeting  was  held  in  Boston,  at  which  Mr.  Austin,  Attorney- 
General  of  Massachusetts,  made  a  violent  pro-slavery  speech, 
which  called  forth  a  crushing  reply  from  Wendell  Phillips,  who 
thenceforth  became  a  main  pillar  of  abolitionism. 


LETTER  FROM  BOSTON 


8 


Who  tears  up  words  like  trees  by  the  roots, 

A  Theseus  in  stout  cow-hide  boots, 

The  wager  of  eternal  war 

Against  that  loathsome  Minotaur 

To  whom  we  sacrifice  each  year 

The  best  blood  of  our  Athens  here, 

(Dear  M.,  pray  brush  up  your  Lempriere.) 

A  terrible  denouncer  he, 

Old  Sinai  burns  unquenchably 

Upon  his  lips  ;  he  well  might  be  a 

Hot-blazing  soul  from  fierce  Judea, 

Habakkuk,  Ezra,  or  Hosea. 

His  words  are  red  hot  iron  searers, 

And  nightmare-like  he  mounts  his  hearers, 

Spurring  them  like  avenging  Fate,  or 

As  Waterton  his  alligator. 

Hard  by,  as  calm  as  summer  even, 

Smiles  the  reviled  and  pelted  Stephen,1 

The  unappeasable  Boanerges 

To  all  the  Churches  and  the  Clergies, 

The  grim  savant  who,  to  complete 

His  own  peculiar  cabinet, 

Contrived  to  label  'mong  his  kicks 

One  from  the  followers  of  Hicks ; 

Who  studied  mineralogy 

Not  with  soft  book  upon  the  knee, 

But  learned  the  properties  of  stones 

By  contact  sharp  of  flesh  and  bones, 

And  made  the  experimentum  crucis 

With  his  own  body's  vital  juices ; 

A  man  with  caoutchouc  endurance, 

1  Stephen  S.  Foster. 


LETTER  FROM  BOSTON 


A  perfect  gem  for  life  insurance, 

A  kind  of  maddened  John  the  Baptist, 

To  whom  the  harshest  word  comes  aptest, 

Who,  struck  by  stone  or  brick  ill-starred, 

Hurls  back  an  epithet  as  hard, 

Which,  deadlier  than  stone  or  brick, 

Has  a  propensity  to  stick. 

His  oratory  is  like  the  scream 

Of  the  iron-horse's  frenzied  steam 

Which  warns  the  world  to  leave  wide  space 

For  the  black  engine's  swerveless  race. 

Ye  men  with  neckcloths  white,  I  warn  you  - 

Habet  a  whole  haymow  in  cornu. 

A  Judith,  there,  turned  Quakeress, 

Sits  Abby  in  her  modest  dress,1 

Serving  a  table  quietly, 

As  if  that  mild  and  downcast  eye 

Flashed  never,  with  its  scorn  intense, 

More  than  Medea's  eloquence. 

So  the  same  force  which  shakes  its  dread 

Far-blazing  locks  o'er  ^Etna's  head, 

Along  the  wires  in  silence  fares 

And  messages  of  commerce  bears. 

No  nobler  gift  of  heart  and  brain, 

No  life  more  white  from  spot  or  stain, 

Was  e'er  on  Freedom's  altar  laid 

Than  hers,  the  simple  Quaker  maid. 

These  last  three  (leaving  in  the  lurch 
Some  other  themes)  assault  the  Church, 
1  Abby  Kelley. 


LETTER  FROM  BOSTON 


311 


Who  therefore  writes  them  in  her  lists 

As  Satan's  limbs  and  atheists ; 

For  each  sect  has  one  argument 

Whereby  the  rest  to  hell  are  sent, 

Which  serves  them  like  the  Graiae's  tooth, 

Passed  round  in  turn  from  mouth  to  mouth  ;  — 

If  any  ism  should  arise, 

They  look  on  it  with  constable's  eyes, 

Tie  round  its  neck  a  heavy  athe-, 

And  give  it  kittens'  hydropathy. 

This  trick  with  other  (useful  very)  tricks 

Is  laid  to  the  Babylonian  meretrix, 

But 't  was  in  vogue  before  her  day 

Wherever  priesthoods  had  their  way, 

And  Buddha's  Popes  with  this  struck  dumb 

The  followers  of  Fi  and  Fum. 

Well,  if  the  world,  with  prudent  fear 
Pay  God  a  seventh  of  the  year, 
And  as  a  Farmer,  who  would  pack 
All  his  religion  in  one  stack, 
For  this  world  works  six  days  in  seven 
And  idles  on  the  seventh  for  Heaven, 
Expecting,  for  his  Sunday's  sowing, 
In  the  next  world  to  go  a-mowing 
The  crop  of  all  his  meeting-going ;  — 
If  the  poor  Church,  by  power  enticed* 
Finds  none  so  infidel  as  Christ, 
Quite  backward  reads  his  Gospel  meek, 
(As 't  were  in  Hebrew  writ,  not  Greek,) 
Fencing  the  gallows  and  the  sword 
With  conscripts  drafted  from  his  Word, 


312 


LETTER  FROM  BOSTON 


And  makes  one  gate  of  Heaven  so  wide 
That  the  rich  orthodox  might  ride 
Through  on  their  camels,  while  the  poor 
Squirm  through  the  scant,  unyielding  door, 
Which,  of  the  Gospel's  straitest  size, 
Is  narrower  than  bead-needles'  eyes, 
What  wonder  World  and  Church  should  call 
The  true  faith  atheistical  ? 

Yet,  after  all,  'twixt  you  and  me, 
Dear  Miller,  I  could  never  see 
That  Sin's  and  Error's  ugly  smirch 
Stained  the  walls  only  of  the  Church  ; 
There  are  good  priests,  and  men  who  take 
Freedom's  torn  cloak  for  lucre's  sake  ; 
I  can't  believe  the  Church  so  strong, 
As  some  men  do,  for  Right  or  Wrong. 
But,  for  this  subject  (long  and  vext) 
I  must  refer  you  to  my  next, 
As  also  for  a  list  exact 
Of  goods  with  which  the  Hall  was  packed. 


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